


It's Quiet Uptown

by princessoftheworlds



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Mutants, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, But Only For One Chapter - Freeform, Canon Temporary Character Death, F/M, M/M, Stucky Big Bang 2017, Teenagers, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 05:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11844768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: Steve Rogers has always relied on the fact that Bucky Barnes is a major part of his life, and his burgeoning crush on his best friend shouldn't alarm him. It doesn't, in fact, but Steve has always had the worst timing in life. He anticipated problems but not problems like this. Enter: boarding school for rich kids, death, assassins, mutants, a road trip, and what could possibly be a government-wide conspiracy. Steve may not even make it to college.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is my contribution for the Stucky Big Bang 2017. I'd like to thank my amazing team: [lostthebucky](http://lostthebucky.tumblr.com/) (my editor) and [ninjasherlock](http://ninjasherlock.tumblr.com/) (my artist). They are both excellent people, and you should go check out their blogs!

The end of summer arrives on the Upper East Side, and, as they do every year, the best of the best, the most powerful of the powerful, the wealthiest of those with wealth, anyone who’s _anyone_ in New York society, receive an engraved invitation to Stark Industries’ Summer Gala.

The Rogers’ invitation arrives at the doorstep of their penthouse suite via a personal delivery by Howard Stark’s right-hand man Edwin Jarvis. The Barnes and the Romanovs receive similar invitations simultaneously.

Sarah Rogers, the finest surgeon on this side of the Hudson, is offered an exquisite white silk gown by Vera Wang herself, but she declines, favoring a white gown with hand-embroidered flowers by a local Brooklyn seamstress.

Sarah’s only son Steve is tailored a suit by the same shop; it clings to his slender frame and does nothing to disguise his bird-like bone structure. At his mother’s insistence, he slicks back his blond hair with military precision and pins on a set of silver cufflinks, a pair worn by the long-deceased Captain Joseph Rogers of the US Army at his wedding to Sarah.

The Rogers take a limousine provided by Howard up to the Stark Industries Tower in mid-Manhattan, where, on arrival, they take the private elevator up to the grand ballroom. The chrome elevator doors, engraved with a stylized version of the SI logo, are all that fifteen-year-old Steve can see for about forty-five seconds. When the doors slide open, Steve takes a deep breath before he steps into the chaos.

Almost immediately, his mother is whisked away by a petite strawberry-blonde, likely one of Potts sisters. The youngest one, nicknamed Pepper, attends his boarding school.

Sighing, Steve braces himself as he wades into the crowd and at every turn, there are familiar faces. Some he knows from school, some from the circles his mother runs in, some familiar SI employees, all chatting and feasting on appetizers that servers are beginning to bring out, or sipping various combinations of drinks. He wanders the ballroom unenthusiastically for forty-five minutes, finding no one to converse with. Once, he snags a pastry from the tray of a stray server; when he bites into the crumbling crust, he tastes the crispy, earthiness of bacon and a sour sauce. Finally, resigning himself to three or four hours of boredom, Steve takes a seat at an empty table in one corner of the ballroom and begins his usual session of people-watching.

The orchestra strikes up some jaunty tune, and more ornately-dressed guests flock to the dance floor. Steve watches a silver-haired couple waltz expertly, holding themselves with great poise and dignity; he recognizes the man to be the CEO of some financial company. Not far from Steve’s corner seat, a newly-married senator twirls his husband in a semblance of the older couple’s dancing; though their movements are imprecise and slightly clumsy, both men are bright-eyed and laughing.

Once, Steve believes, he spots his mother waltz by in a blur. He smiles softly as he hears her melodious laugh; his mother is still young in heart, spirit, and beauty. Though Sarah has only dated a few different men since Steve’s father died, he still wants his mother to be joyous.

Still, after an uneventful fifteen minutes, Steve sits back, leaning his head into his palm with his arm braced on the table. He retrieves his Starktech phone, the newest version which is not available to the regular public yet; one of the perks (or nuisances, as Steve sees it) of being Tony Stark’s friend is access to SI’s products before their public release. Although right now he is unable to distract himself with Facebook or any other social media, seeing as most of his meager number of friends are at this very gala.

“I’d tell you, Mrs. Fletcher, if my father was running for president, but then I’d have to kill you. And let me tell you, what a waste of a lovely face like yours would that be.”

Instantly alert, Steve swivels his head exactly ninety degrees to his left.

There, in his direct sightline, is James Buchanan Barnes.

Steve is on his feet and stalking closer in mere seconds; he dodges past trios of socialites taking selfies and ducks behind a server. The name slips from his lips when he is only a few feet away.

“Bucky!”

Immediately, Bucky snaps his head in Steve’s direction and smiles brightly. “Stevie!”

Skidding to a halt besides Bucky’s conversation partner, a stout woman in her late fifties who Steve vaguely recognizes as a minor politician’s wife, he digs in his heels and barely manages to keep from flinging himself at his best friend.

“Excuse me, young man,” the woman says discourteously, hand going to clutch the string of pearls at her pale neck. “Mr. Barnes and I were amid a significant conversation.”

Steve bristles at the brusqueness of her tone, but before he can deliver a curt response, Bucky interjects smoothly, “Forgive me, Mrs. Fletcher, but Steve and I have not seen each other since summer began. If you would not mind too much, we would love to catch up. We can continue this conversation at some other time, yes?”

“Of course, James,” Mrs. Fletcher replies, fawning over Bucky’s charismatically-endearing smile. “So polite, just like your mother. With your father’s good looks. Mind you, in a few years, you will have all the ladies falling over you.” Bucky retains his pasted-on smile as she turns to Steve, her gaze hardening. “And you, young man, swimming may build more meat on those skinny bones of yours. You should eat more.”

“Why don’t-” Steve bites back his comment when Bucky begins making frantic hand motions for him to stop behind the woman’s back, shutting his mouth with the clack of teeth.

Satisfied at having the final word in the conversation, Mrs. Fletcher curls her lips in a smug smirk and trots away, likely off to find another innocent victim to irritate.

“Steve!” Bucky turns to the blond and sweeps him up in a tight hug. When Steve is released by the other boy he gets the first good look at his best friend after three months of summer.

Bucky Barnes is still tall and lanky and wearing a similar tailored suit to Steve’s. However, unlike Steve’s, his suit clings to actual muscle, gained from his freshmen year stints on both the soccer and badminton teams. True to Mrs. Fletcher’s word, he does have his father’s cobalt eyes and easy, dimpled smile, but the dark hair and vaguely Eastern European features come from Winifred, along with the olive skin that has grown significantly more tan over the summer.

Steve doesn’t know or understand why there’s a brief rush of adrenaline in his stomach when he glances over Bucky, almost like he’s on the free fall of a rollercoaster.

“How was Europe?” Steve asks.

“Kick-ass,” Bucky replies enthusiastically, flashing Steve a brilliant smile that brings back that rush momentarily. Too eager to explain, he doesn’t notice Steve’s fair skin flushing a vivid pink. “Besides all the galas and fundraisers Dad and Mom had to go to, we spent a long time in Spain. Got to see the running of the bulls in Pamplona, and we were lucky enough to be near Valencia on the last Wednesday in August for their annual tomato festival.” He shrugs distractedly. “Hit all the usual spots in Greece, Rome, Paris, and London. And, we did visit Mom’s cousins down in Bucharest for a few weeks.”

Bucky’s father is New York’s Democratic Senator George Barnes, and his mother, Winifred, is the owner of _The Daily Bugle_. They, like Steve’s mother, take work wherever they travel.

“That’s … amazing,” Steve responds lamely.

Bucky claps a gentle hand against Steve’s back, careful not to use too much force, and Steve can feel the body heat of his best friend’s palm seeping through his suit. “You should have come!” Bucky exclaims. “You would have been sketching everywhere.”

“I couldn’t have even if I wanted to,” Steve sighs. “You know that.” Despite being quite busy with her hospital over the summer, Sarah had obtained an internship in a famed art gallery for Steve, a job he had eagerly fulfilled.

“Right.” Bucky nods wisely. “So, how was your internship?”

“It was great!” Steve beams, a sign that Bucky knows means that Steve is about to talk his ear off about art.

He quickly diverts the topic. “How was your birthday?”

“Ma took me to Coney Island.”

“Without me?” Bucky pouts.

Every year, Sarah and the Barnes take Bucky, Becca, and Steve to Coney Island for Steve’s birthday, but this year Steve and his mother went alone. They had enjoyed a warm day before returning to their penthouse for a quick party with Steve’s friends, again sans Bucky.

“Don’t worry; we ate enough hot dogs to make up for your lack of presence.”

Bucky perks up, smirking suspiciously. “Did you get my birthday present?”

Steve sighs again, this time in exasperation. “Yes, I did.”

Bucky had sent him a gorgeous leather-bound sketchbook and some expensive charcoals. Tucked into the inner flap of the sketchbook was a Polaroid of Bucky and Becca sticking their tongues out at the camera while they posed in front of the Louvre. It was signed, _Here’s to not missing you_.

“Did you like it?”

Swatting Bucky on the back of the head, Steve barely holds back his laughter this time around. “You’re such an asshole, Barnes.”

Before Bucky can whip up a witty reply, Tony Stark materializes besides them with Natasha Romanova only a few steps behind. “Rogers, Barnes!” he exclaims as he claps a painful hand on both of their shoulders, causing Steve’s knees to buckle slightly.

“Tony,” Steve greets while Bucky murmurs an inaudible, “Hello, Stark.”

“Steve.” Natasha and Steve exchange a quick nod before she swoops in and pinches Bucky’s neck painfully.

“Oww!” Bucky complains, rubbing the reddened skin. “What was that for, Nat?”

“I wanted to, James.” Natasha shrugs causally.

As both the teenaged heir to SI and a Stark, Tony has a wild reputation, and he matches that by standing out amongst the rest of the gala’s guests in a violet silk suit and black tie. His dark aristocratic features are inherited from his mother Maria’s Italian ancestry, but the deep dark circles underneath and twitchy fingers come from a lack of sleep, a whole lotta of coffee, and Howard Stark’s genius.

Beside him, Natasha is a dream in a classic black gown, diamonds glittering at both her neck and earlobes. Her crimson hair, cat-like green eyes, and heart-shaped face resemble the features of her mother, famed ballerina Anastasia Romanova. Anastasia, petite and graceful, is the Upper East Side’s Black Widow. She danced in Russia’s Bolshoi Theatre before marrying a wealthy American businessman who brought her to America. After Nat was born, her father mysteriously died, and, since then, her mother has gone through a string of husbands.

“Is that Pepper?” Tony is already on his tippy toes, peering past Bucky. “I think that’s Pep. I gotta go meet her!” he spews rapidly. He turns back to Steve with frantic eyes. “Nice to see you again, Pipsqueak, Buckaroo. Remember to come to my bash!”

And then, just like a racecar, he’s off, moving further into the ballroom until he’s swept up into the crowd.

“Well,” Bucky comments dryly. “That was nice.”

Steve shakes his head in equal parts amusement and exasperation. “That’s just Tony for you,” he says with a sigh.

Becoming friends with Tony Stark had come about as natural to Steve and Bucky as a fish trying to live without water. Having grown up together in Brooklyn with only each other, Rebecca, and the occasional neighborhood kid to play with, both boys were unused to company. Both the Barnes and the Rogers families had moved to the Upper East Side simultaneously, so Steve and Bucky had been able to stick together throughout elementary school. Of course, they had made other friends, but they had only one best friend. Come middle school, Tony Stark had trotted up to them on the first day, taken their cell phones, and used the parts to build a small robot. After that, they could just never shake the Stark.

“How was your summer, Nat?” Steve asks politely.

She shrugs, loose hair shaking with the motion as she does. “Nothing much. Average summer.” Natasha brings her hand up swiftly to check a watch dangling from her delicate wrist. “I have to get going.” She flashes them a deadly smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, boys?”

“At Tony’s bash?” Steve lets out a long sound of frustration. “Buck’s going to drag me there anyway, as he does every year. So, might as well.”

Natasha’s smile grows wider before she moves away in a swish of black silk.

“That’s the spirit, punk.” Bucky laughs, reaching a hand out to ruffle Steve’s hair.

Scowling, Steve barely dodges. “Shut up, jerk.”

//

The next evening, Steve finds himself in the Barnes apartment.

Located in the penthouse of one of the most exclusive buildings on the Upper East Side, the apartment is expansive, with two floors and a loft, all lavishly-decorated. It is similar in layout to Steve’s own home, and he already knows every nook and cranny as he has since he was nine.

Bucky and Steve stand in the apartment’s grand kitchen, outfitted with all the amenities that a professional chef would need. It’s the weekend, Sunday to be in fact, so the Barnes’ chef is taking the day off, leaving the boys to craft their own sandwiches.

“Have you seen the mayo?” Steve asks distractedly, using a knife to slice some ham and layer it on his bread.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever met who likes mayo on anything,” Bucky complains with a grimace but still tosses him the squeeze bottle.

Steve squeezes a plethora of mayo onto his sandwich, squishes the bread together, and turns to face Bucky, taking an exaggerated bite of the sandwich. This much mayo tastes disgusting in his sandwich, but he manages not to gag and instead relishes in Bucky’s grimace becoming more pronounced.

Taking another bite, Steve ignores the heavy creaminess of the mayo coating his tongue and gives a false moan of pleasure.

“I get it, pal.” Bucky wrinkles his nose in revulsion. “You like it.” He pauses a beat. “Do you need a private moment with your sandwich?”

Immediately, Steve drops it onto the plate and shoves the plate onto the counter. “Eww! Seriously?” he protests, outraged. “Why do you have to be such an asshole?”

Bucky gives him a mischievous smirk. “Wanna go back to playing Call of Duty?”

Before Steve can respond, the sound of Becca’s voice comes from down the hall, along with the sound of her footsteps as she moves closer. “I’m afraid you can’t.”

She appears in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing a shimmery floral dress with heels, her makeup done, and her hair up.

“We’re getting late for Stark’s party,” Becca continues.

Whoever controls the genetic lottery made Becca the odd Barnes out. Instead of being dark and wavy, her hair is auburn and completely straight, though she shares Bucky’s eyes and nose. Slender and averaged height, she comes up with Bucky’s neck, without heels.

“ _We_?” Bucky scowls good-naturedly. “Who said you were coming?”

“Mom said I can. Plus, I was invited by Tony.” Becca curls her ruby-red lips into a cunning smile. “If you are there to ensure that I don’t consume alcohol. Or, too much alcohol.” She fixes Bucky with a fierce gaze.

“Ugh,” he groans. “Fine.” He rakes a spare hand through his hair, disheveling the gel that holds it away from his face.

“Let’s go!” Becca beams happily.

They take a limo, not to SI Tower this time, but the Stark residence, an opulent manor on the edge of Manhattan. The party has already begun, spilling out onto the lawn, and Steve has to step over a shattered bottle with dark liquid staining the grass just to reach the door.

It could be soda, it could be beer.

That’s just the state of Tony’s annual End of Summer Bash, annual since the end of seventh grade.

They proceed inside, and there is a chorus of shrill shrieks as Becca is spotted by her friends. Before she can slip away, Bucky grabs her by the arm. “Always keep your phone on,” he instructs her seriously. “Only drink from sealed bottles and what you have poured yourself. If you need anything, call or find me, Steve, Natasha, or Tony.”

Becca gives him a sober nod, clever eyes alight with understanding, before whirling away to her friends.

Steve and Bucky emerge into the spacious living room of Tony’s mansion and find the party in full swing.

Dubstep is playing loud enough that the walls seem to reverberate; various teenagers dance and grind against each other. On the large couches that line the living room, more guys and girls are making out, chatting, or simply passed out. If Steve peers past the living room, he can just barely see the outlines of partygoers cannonballing into the colossal swimming pool. An array of various snacks and drinks, both exotic and cheap brands, are scattered across the vast counters of the adjoining kitchen. There already is a small mountain of crumbs piling on the attractive marble.

“It will be quieter in the bedrooms,” Bucky yells into Steve’s ears, barely audible over the loud thumping of the music and the rest of the chaotic chatter. “We’re already late; they must have moved there.”

They continue into the complex maze of hallways that comprise the Stark Mansion, completely bypassing the living room to Steve’s relief. Bucky leads them further down an endless hallway until the music from the partying seems to fade to a distinct whisper. There is mostly silence around them now, and it is beginning to become slightly unnerving.

“Boys.”

Steve shrieks loudly and tumbles backwards into Bucky, who barely manages to catch him. They narrowly avoid smashing into the wall.

Finally, able to see who caused his fright, Steve clutches at his chest, breathing slowly to allow his weak heart to catch up.

“Dammit, Natasha!” he snarls. “That’s not funny! Don’t sneak up on me!”

Bucky scowls. “That wasn’t cool, Nat. You know he has a weak heart!”

Natasha appears contrite for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she says sincerely. “That wasn’t good judgement.”  Just a few seconds later, however, she smiles almost frighteningly. “We’re all in the third guest bedroom; you just missed us.”

“You could have told us that without almost giving Steve a heart attack!” Bucky cries, still agitated with Natasha’s previous behavior.

“Chill, Buck. It’s fine.” Steve places a gentle hand on Bucky’s shoulder and nearly recoils; Bucky is so tense that his body almost feels like steel under Steve’s touch. “She didn’t mean it, and she already apologized.”

“Fine.” Bucky visibly relaxes, offering Natasha a weak grin.

“We’re back this way.” Natasha motions with her chin. “Come on.” She turns around and leads them back down the hallway. Despite being petite and usually around Steve’s height, she is wearing heels today to match her slinky party dress, and she now towers over Steve to be level with Bucky’s ears.

They stop in front of a door halfway down the hallway, and Natasha rotates the doorknob with a steady hand and then pushes the door open with her hip.

There is a loud chorus of welcoming cries from the occupants of the room.

“Barnes! You brought Rogers,” Tony cries loudly, leaning against the bed. From the open bottle in his hand, the dark flush to his cheeks, and his slurred words, he is clearly well on his way to becoming drunk.

“Bedroom” is an understatement for the surroundings; it is more of a suite than a bedroom. Past the door is a little kitchenette with an adjoining open-concept sitting area. Everything flows smoothly into the vast bedroom, where Tony and the rest of his acquaintances sit in a large, crooked circle.

“Join us!” Tony cries again. “We’re playing Spin the Bottle.”

And there is, in fact, an empty beer bottle placed in the center of the circle.

“Take a seat,” Pepper says from besides Tony. Her intelligent eyes are not dulled by alcohol, and she still appears mostly put together; she must be on Tony-duty, usually split between her and Rhodey, the only two of Tony’s friends that Steve recognizes here.

Virginia “Pepper” Potts, nicknamed for the freckles that dot her fair cheeks, is the niece of a minor New York politician, known for his activism. Her parents own a franchise of highly-successful restaurants. She met Tony in preschool, and her propensity for neatness and no-nonsense attitude has allowed her to put up with him ever since.

James Rhodes, whom most call Rhodey, is Tony’s childhood friend. They met through Rhodey’s uncle, a high-ranking official in the Department of Defense, and his partnership with Howard. Though Rhodey lives in DC, he’s currently in New York to visit Tony. In a few days, he’ll head up to the same boarding school that Steve, Bucky, Tony, Natasha, and Pepper attend.

Steve surveys his options: he can join Natasha and Bucky, who have already taken seats on the opposite sides of the room. Or, he can take a risk and sit down near Tony.

His nerves are buzzing, and his heart races as he chooses, squeezing in between Rhodey and Pepper.

“Here!”

Tony tosses a beer bottle towards Steve, and he begins to panic. His hazy eyesight ensures poor hand-eye coordination, and as he begins to reach his arms at the bottle, he also scoots back to avoid any possible mishaps.

Thankfully, however, Pepper snatches the bottle from mid-air, just before it reaches Steve, and then hands it to him, smiling kindly. In return, he shoots her a grateful look.

“Thanks,” he whispers into her ear as Tony begins to settle back into the circle.

“No problem, Steve.”

He examines the bottle. It’s a Corona, and the bottle is sealed tightly, to his extreme relief, though the condensation dotting the bottle’s glass surface makes it slippery in his grip. He tilts it forward and examines the murky liquid inside.

“Are you done scrutinizing it?” Tony asks, in a normal volume for once. When Steve nods his assent, he leans over, stretching across Pepper who rolls her eyes and moves back, to pop the cap off with a bottle opener Steve hadn’t noticed before in his hand.

Steve sniffs the open bottle slightly; being extra cautious with his alcohol is a habit ingrained in him by his mother. Then, he takes a sip.

He’s had alcohol before, only in small doses and in similar atmospheres, but he knows his limits. He doesn’t particularly like the taste of beer, or alcohol in general, and one bottle of beer will be enough to get him tipsy for little more than an hour.

“Let’s continue with our game,” a girl with violet hair exclaims from opposite Steve.

“No!” someone else protests, words slurring. “We’ve been playing that for sooo long now.”

“Truth or Dare?”

Tony’s suggestion is met with loud, dissonant cheers, and he tilts forward, almost tipping face-forward into the ground, to spin the bottle.

Steve ignores most of the game, focusing on draining the sour contents of his bottle. Occasionally, he hears a laugh or a boo. He knows that Bucky is not entirely focused on the game either, instead engaged in a conversation with Natasha.

His mind becomes the slightest bit fuzzy, and his body begins to feel a little heavy as his eyes start to droop.

“Steve! Truth or dare?”

Startling, Steve snaps his head up to stare awkwardly at Tony. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Bucky do the same, suddenly interested in the game now that it’s Steve’s turn. “Uhh,” he says, louder than he had intended to. “Truth.”

“Okay.” Tony smirks wickedly, a terrible gleam in his eyes that Steve recognizes, and he groans, now regretting his choice. “You chose truth, Stevie-boy.”

“Don’t call him that.”

Steve hears Bucky snap at Tony in the distance, though his words are slurred and lacking any proper venom.

“If you could,” Tony drawls slowly, purposely delaying the rest of his question, “kiss anyone here, who would it be?”

Immediately, Steve thinks _Bucky_ , almost as if his best friend’s name is reflex. Then, he blushes wildly, and Tony’s smirk widens, like he has read Steve’s mind.

Steve’s gaze travels to Natasha next; the Romanov is the furthest thing from unattractive, but she remains Steve’s friend, and he has never wanted to ogle her.

But, just as he opens his mouth to reply, Tony speaks again. “Oooh, wait. I forgot. They can’t be Bucky-boy or She Who Makes Us Mortals Shit Their Pants In Terror.”

Natasha smiles appreciatively at Tony’s nickname.

Now, Steve has found himself in a rut. If he were to kiss anyone here, it would be someone he already knew, and, though Tony is good-looking, Steve’s not going to further the Stark’s ego by naming him.

Looking to both his left and right, Steve studies Pepper and Rhodey.

Pepper’s pretty in the girl-next-door way; her strawberry-blond hair is braided back neatly, exposing her slim nose and soft-looking pink lips.

Rhodey’s hair is cropped close to his ears, impersonating the military haircut. He has strong features, a handsome jawline, and dark skin; Steve wouldn’t mind making him a permanent image on canvas or getting close enough to kiss his full lips.

_Oh._

Is this what it is? A realization?

Steve’s jaw drops a little as his mouth drifts open, the alcohol dulling his usually lightning-fast mind. Then he shrugs.

If he would like to kiss both boys and girls, then it’s that simple.

“Steve?”

“What?” Steve snaps his attention back to Tony. “I’d kiss Pepper.”

The Stark pouts; obviously, he was hoping that Steve would name him. “Fine,” he says stubbornly, leaning forward to spin the bottle again and to find a new victim.

“Just for the record,” Pepper says sweetly, voice pitched low so that only Steve can hear her. “If it ever comes to that, I’d want to kiss you too.”

//

Steve wakes up wrapped in the plush, silky softness of the comforters on the pullout couch in Bucky’s bedroom. His body and head are only slightly heavy, most likely due to Natasha. After the game, Natasha, whose metabolism is the fastest of all their friends, had sobered up enough to force a water bottle down both boys’ throats. They had next collected Rebecca, who had not touched a drop of alcohol the entire evening, and summoned a Stark limo to drop first Natasha and then the Barnes siblings and Steve home. They had tiptoed into the elevator, leaning against its walls as it made its ascent up, and then into the penthouse. Becca had drifted into her bedroom, and Steve and Bucky had continued to Bucky’s room where Steve had collapsed on the couch he usually slept on when he was over, covering himself with the blankets that someone had thoughtfully placed out.

“Hey, Bucky,” Steve hisses quietly, cautious in case his best friend is still sleeping.

“What?” Bucky asks at the same volume. He drifts into Steve’s view, holding a glass of water. “Why are we whispering?”

Steve musters enough sleepy energy to roll his eyes. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Well, obviously,” Bucky replies, only slightly louder. “I’m not.”

“Why are you such a jerk?” Steve complains, rolling over to glare at Bucky more easily.

“Why are you such a punk?” he parrots back.

“Shuddup.” Now, Steve sits up, leaning back against the couch.

“Come on.” Bucky sets his glass down and latches a hand onto Steve’s wrist. “Get up.”

“Why?” the blond whines childishly. “I’m awake. Lemme stay warm.”

“We have to pack.” The Barnes turns around to eye his bedroom, searching for the large suitcase he tossed in a corner a few months previous as soon as he returned from boarding school.

“Hah.” Steve scoffs, his baby blues boring into the back of Bucky’s head. “Jokes on you. I already packed yesterday.”

“I swear.” Bucky groans. “If there’s an apocalypse, only you will survive, Mr. Boy Scout.”

“We quit after two weeks when we were seven,” Steve reminds him.

“Go away,” Bucky instructs grumpily, and Steve joking obeys. He stretches his legs and then slips off the couch to join his best friend in packing.

//

“Have you got everything?” Sarah asks worriedly, slipping Steve’s suitcase into the trunk of the Barnes family’s limo. She dressed in her work attire; despite having taken a few hours off, Sarah will be back to the hospital as soon as Steve and Bucky leave.

“Yes, Ma,” he reassures his mother patiently. “I double- and triple -checked my list _and_ your list. Besides, if I forgot anything, you can just mail it to me or bring it up. I’ll see you when you visit in two weeks anyway.”

She beams with pride. “I love you, my darling.” She slips her arms around Steve, towering over him. Those hands, capable of so much greatness and kindness, clutch his slender shoulders tightly. “Stay safe, and work hard,” Sarah instructs him.

“I will, Ma.” Steve sighs, pushing his nose in his mother’s silky hair and breathing in her gentle scent of lavender and roses. He relishes the solid weight of her in his arms before stepping out of her hug. “Love you.” He grabs his messenger bag, containing few items other than the sketchbook Bucky gifted him and a few pencils. “I’ll text you when we get there.” He waves his cell phone meaningfully.

They are standing on the sidewalk outside of Bucky’s building, the limo parked on the street. It’s Thursday, four days after Tony’s party, and they are expected to check in at school by tomorrow to confirm their attendance.

“Steve?” Bucky calls, barging through the revolving door of his building. He spots the blond and begins moving rapidly towards him. “There you are, asshole. I’ve been looking for you!” Bucky finally notices Sarah standing behind Steve, and his olive skin darkens considerably in an embarrassed blush as he takes on a contrite expression. “Oh, hi, Sarah,” he squeaks, and Steve’s mother laughs delightedly. Bucky clears his throat loudly. “Are you ready to go, punk?”

“Yup,” Steve replies, still chortling, and his best friend glares at him.

“Come here, Jamie.” Sarah grabs Bucky in a bear-hug, squeezing him tightly for a moment, before planting a messy kiss on his forehead and releasing him. “Be good.” She fixes both boys with a fierce glare briefly then smiles at them.

They slip into the car, having exchanged goodbyes with Bucky’s parents and Becca the night before, and the driver turns the key, igniting the engine. Steve waves to his mother one final time through the back window before the limo is on the street, Sarah fading from view.

It’s roughly a journey of ten hours, depending on traffic, and they left early morning. Steve reads on his Kindle for a few hours, sketches, and, at one point, watches Netflix with Bucky, who spends most of the drive staring out his window. At one point they stop for lunch at some stray Taco Bell that appears at a rest stop, but, quite soon afterwards, the limo driver guns the engine again, and they’re back on the road.

It is early evening when the sign for their boarding school drifts into the view of Steve’s window.

SHIELD Preparatory Academy is an excellent yet exclusive school; only the children of the nation’s best, like Steve and Bucky, can afford the boarding school, though each year they take on promising prodigies with scholarships. Steve and his friends are all legacies; their parents attended SHIELD. Founded by US Army General Chester Phillips after the Second World War, the school is currently run by Director Nicholas Fury, a former colonel.

The school itself is located close to the border of Virginia and West Virginia, the closest “city” being Roanoke. This means, to get to the actual campus, the limo must drive an hour and a half through wilderness and then through the small (read miniscule) town that surrounds the school.

Hence, almost two hours later, Bucky, still peering through the window, spots the first campus building and gives a shout, drawing Steve’s attention.

The limo drives past the standard brick buildings to the very last one on the absolute edge of campus. Beyond the building is nothing but the shaggy forest that surrounds the campus and its town.

The driver parks along the building and helps Steve and Bucky unload their luggage. Steve manages to fire off a quick text to his mother before the limo drives off, leaving the boys standing beside their new dorm building.

“I texted Jim,” Bucky announces, leaning against his suitcase. “He’s coming down to let us in. We’ll just check in with the dorm admin staff and get checked in tomorrow when everyone else does.”

Steve nods his assent just as the automatic doors of the building swish open. Jim strolls up to meet them, followed by Gabe.

“Hey, Barnes.” Jim wraps Bucky in a quick hug and then turns to fist-bump Steve.

James Morita, Bucky’s roommate for their entire career as students at SHIELD, is from a Japanese-American family well-established in the politics of California. His mother is a Congresswoman, and his father, James I, is a famous architect.  

“How are you, Gabe?” Steve asks as he extracts the handle of his suitcase.

“Oh, I’m alright,” Gabe replies politely. “How was your summer, Steve?”

Gabriel Jones, on the other hand, is Steve’s roommate and is a local kid from Georgia. His grandfather was a soldier who fought alongside General Phillips during World War II, and his family owns several shrimp franchises.

“Same old, same old.” Steve shrugs. “What about you guys?”

“I spent a few weeks in Canada,” Jim says distractedly as he swipes his student ID through the electronic door lock. “My sister decided that she had to get married next to Niagara Falls. Then she left on her honeymoon, and the rest of us went further up to visit my mom’s sisters.”

“Cool,” Bucky butts in before engaging Jim in a conversation about Tim Hortons and Canadian bacon.

Steve rolls his eyes, wheeling his suitcase behind him as he follows Gabe inside their new building. “Are the rooms any bigger?” he asks his roommate.

Gabe barks a musical laugh. “Not quite.” He pauses before adding, “The bathrooms are cleaner though.”

They continue their journey to the fifth floor, lugging their suitcases behind them.

“They’re setting us all up in this building first,” Gabe explains as they walk, Jim and Bucky still chatting and following behind them. “But they’ll be moving some of us into the dorms on the other side of campus.”

“Why?” Steve asks curiously.

“Dunno.” Gabe shrugs, and that’s the end of that conversation. “Here we are,” he says, stopping in front of a door. He unlocks it with a jingle of keys, allowing the door to swing inwards. “Welcome to your new room.”

The room is not much of an improvement from last year, as Gabe stated previously. It is set up as a stereotypical dorm room, two narrow beds on each side of the room and two desks beyond that. There are two identical closets set into the wall and two identical cabinets. On Gabe’s side, indicated by his suitcase lying half-open on a bed, the door to the bathroom is set a few inches from his desk.

“I went ahead and chose my side.” Gabe’s expression becomes apologetic for a moment. “We can still exchange too, if you wish to.”

“Nah.” Steve laughs briefly. “I think that this will do.”

//

The next day, all four boys check in with registration and find, to their disappointment, that Bucky and Jim are being moved across campus to a new building. Steve offers to talk to the admin staff about switching roommates, so that Gabe and Jim can share a room while Bucky and Steve do.

Bucky waves him off. “It’ll be fine, Stevie,” he tells the blond. “It’ll be like living back in New York.”

Steve receives his schedule and finds that Bucky and he only share one class together, third period English Honors.

“The universe is trying to keep us apart,” Bucky jokes when they get back to Steve’s dorm room, but Steve frowns at him.

“Oh, shuddup,” Steve groans at him before smashing his best friend in the head with a pillow.

//

Sophomore year of high school begins the Monday after they arrive on campus.

Steve’s first class, Pre-Calculus Honors, has the teacher explaining the syllabus, which makes time pass by _so_ slowly it’s like watching paint dry. However his second period is Art II, where he meets Dr. Abraham Erskine.

Dr. Erskine is a former scientist who retired and became an art teacher. His kind eyes, shock of grey hair, and soft-spoken yet firm words quickly place him high in Steve’s eyes.

“I absolutely believe,” he tells them, “that even the best artist can become better. That is why I am telling you that your major assignment for the first quarter of this year will be a series of figure drawings. Pick one subject, and follow them around for the next few weeks.”

Steve is grinning anticipation when he slides into a seat next to Bucky in his third period.

“What side of the bed did you wake up on?” Bucky asks suspiciously.

“My art teacher is fucking awesome,” Steve explains, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

The door to the classroom slams shut, and everyone startles, their gaze travelling to the front of the room where a tall man with sparse hair and nondescript features is leaning against the large teacher’s desk.

“Good,” the man says. “You’re already paying attention.” He picks up a large cardboard box that Steve hadn’t noticed before and grabs a handful of slim books, dropping a stack onto each desk in the front. “My name is Phil Coulson. You may call me Mr. Coulson or Coulson.” He motions for the students to begin passing back the novels down the columns of desks. “Welcome to English Honors 10.”

Bucky picks up his copy. “ _The Great Gatsby_?” he hisses distastefully. “I fucking hate this book.”

Steve shrugs. “I don’t have strong feeling for or against it.”

Mr. Coulson, now standing at the whiteboard, claps his hands together loudly. “ _The Great Gatsby_ will be the first novel we read this year. Now, look around yourselves. I’m sure many of you already know each other, but, if you don’t, get to. You will be working together several times this year, and I will not tolerate slacking or depending on partners to do all the work.”

“Alright,” Bucky grumbles, but Steve can tell that his best friend does in fact like Mr. Coulson’s no-nonsense attitude.

Steve cracks open the novel and reads the quote on the front page as Mr. Coulson instructed them to. Ten minutes, after a quick brainstorming session, the class holds an informal Socratic seminar discussing it. Mr. Coulson turns out to not be as stern as he looks when he makes several Star Wars and Harry Potter references.

Steve’s last class is, to his disappointment, PE. Thankfully, the coaches decide to give the sophomores an easy start and only force them to run two laps on the track. Gasping slowly after that attack on his lungs, he heads back to the locker room to change and then, as soon as the last bell rings to signal the end of the first day of school, he heads back to his dorm to shower.

When he emerges from the bathroom, he finds a text from Bucky, who is already at soccer tryouts. Tomorrow will be badminton tryouts.

Trust Bucky to throw himself back into school on the first day itself.

He texts the brunet back, saying that he will meet Bucky in town for food later, and Bucky replies with a sweaty selfie from his tryouts, skin damp and a wide grin splitting his face.

Steve’s heart skips a beat, and he drops his phone onto his desk before flopping on his bed and attempting some basic sketches for his art class.

About half an hour later, his phone begins to buzz, and Steve leans over to pick it up and answer the call.

“Hello?” he asks distractedly, having not glanced at the caller’s name.

“Still on the Howling Commandos,” Bucky crows happily in his ears, and Steve assumes that his tryouts went quite well.

“Why would you not be?” Steve replies. “You were their star striker last year.” After a few seconds of no reply, he imagines that Bucky is still preening on his side of the call.

“Anyway,” Bucky finally speaks. “Wanna met at the usual place? Like now?”

Their “usual place” is a small coffee shop in the center of the town’s miniscule downtown, quaint enough that few other SHIELD students beside Steve and his friends frequent it, preferring the pricier Starbucks a few streets up. Bucky stumbled upon it the start of last year, and the boys spent nearly every morning there for the remainder of the year.

“Yup.” Steve slips off his bed, tucking the phone under his ear to free his hands, and drops his sketchbook, pencil case, wallet, and headphones into his messenger bag. “I’m coming. See you in five.”

Bucky disconnects the call with a long beep while Steve grabs his room keys and ensures that his student ID is still in his pocket before sweeping from the room.

He climbs down the stairs to the ground level of the building, not willing to wait for the elevator, and makes his way up three blocks from the campus until he arrives before the shop.

Bucky is already seated at a table near the shop’s storefront window, nursing a smoothie. An identical smoothie is set opposite him on the table, likely for Steve. The brunet is still in his shorts and shirt, bag set on the floor beside the table.

“Hey, Stevie!” he calls when he spots the blond barging through the door, sipping more of his bright drink.

Steve takes his seat opposite Bucky at the table. “How were the tryouts?” he asks as he sets his bag down.

Bucky grins effervescently. “Fine. Jim and Gabe are still on the team. Some new French kid named Dernier or something is one of the defenders. He’s good, blocks like two-thirds of my shots.” He takes a long draw of his drink, and Steve reaches for his own, taking a testing sip.

Immediately, the zesty flavor of lemon and strawberry explode on his tongue. He smacks his lips together twice and then licks them, wiping them of any remaining excess. When he glances up, he finds Bucky staring at his lips fixatedly. “What?” Steve demands curiously.

“Nothing.” Bucky flushes and snaps his gaze down.

Steve takes another sip. “I’m surprised,” he admits. “For your choice, this isn’t a bad smoothie. What’s it called?”

Bucky shrugs. “Dunno.” He gives Steve a preening smirk. “But you like it?”

Rolling his eyes, Steve reaches into his messenger bag and withdraws his sketchbook and a pencil. “Yeah, I guess I like it, jerk.” He pushes his drink to the side, clearing space to place his sketchbook on the table.

“How was your first day?” Bucky asks conversationally.

Steve hums as he flips his sketchbook open to his desired page; he grabs his pencil and starts to work. “Don’t move,” he orders a now-frozen Bucky, drink still in hand. “And my day was fine. Art seems like it’ll be awesome this year, and, well, I like Mr. Coulson. PE didn’t totally suck.”

“How much longer do I have to stay this way?” murmurs Bucky from the corner of his mouth, eyes darting around.

“Just hold on a second longer,” he replies, distracted by the pencil darting rapidly over his page of paper as he hurriedly takes down Bucky’s key features. “Now you can move.”

Bucky heaves a giant sigh of relief.

Steve can’t help but roll his eyes again. “How was your day?” he parrots back. As Bucky rambles on, Steve continues his sketching.

Almost thirty minutes later, Bucky having realized that Steve was, in fact, not listening to him and had stopped talking ten minutes ago while pouting childishly, his sketch is taking the shape of an actual scene.

It only spurs him to urge his pencil to move faster and complete his work.

Bucky’s taking a long draw on his straw, making a disgusting sucking sound now that there’s no smoothie left in his cup, and Steve makes a face, wrinkling his nose.

When Bucky continues his childish antics, Steve snaps, “Can you stop that?”

Despite frowning lightly, Bucky does, thankfully, pick the cup up and slide off his stool. He drops the waste into the recycling container a few feet away before returning.

Steve can only add a few more pencil strokes before Bucky is leaning over and attempting to see his sketch.

“Is that me?” he questions snottily. He studies the sketch briefly before flaring his nostrils. “My ears aren’t that big,” he protests.

“Yes, they are,” Steve drawls. “They are just as big as your big head and big ego.”

“At least my nose isn’t crooked like yours.”

It is only years of instinct that keeps Steve’s hand from flying to his nose. “Shuddup,” he groans and continues his work.

“Seriously, though, why are you sketching me?” Bucky prompts. “I don’t mind or nothing, but I think there would be better environments than me in a sweaty jersey.”

“It’s a for a major art assignment; I have to follow you around and sketch you this quarter. Besides, this setting is fine; it feels natural.” Steve leans forward and takes a whiff of Bucky’s scent. “Jeez. Never mind. You stink. Go shower or something, asshole.”

“You already follow me around everywhere.” Bucky laughs handsomely before shrugging. “Sure. But that means you’ll have to come to soccer and badminton practice and everything else.”

“I already do that mostly,” Steve reminds him. He flips his sketchbook closed and tucks it under one arm, grabbing his messenger bag with the other. Bucky picks up his own bag and pushes in the chairs while Steve tosses his own waste into the recycling container. “Got much work?” he asks the brunet.

“Nope.” Bucky shakes his head. “It’s the first day of school, baby. No homework until next week.”

“It’s not freshmen year anymore.”

“I’ll still be fine,” Bucky brags.

He’s right. Everything comes almost natural to Bucky; he floats on the ice of life with ease, never falling despite the thinness of the blades on his skates.

“Whatever you say,” Steve says finally, holding the door open so that Bucky can exit first.

//

The first week of classes flies by quickly, especially as they start to receive homework. Within one quick month, the end of the first quarter of the school year nears, and Steve, who has trailed Bucky all over campus to sketch him, turns in his sketchbook to Dr. Erskine early.

A few days later, Dr. Erskine calls him in to talk. Steve rushes to the classroom when he receives the message, panicking that his teacher has found an error with his portfolio.

What Dr. Erskine tells him surprises Steve.

“Your skill is very good, very refined. You have obviously been drawing for a very long time,” the teacher says. “In a few short years, you could become a prominent artist in New York galleries if you keep on like this.”

The praise causes Steve to blush, but his eyebrows remain furrowed in a frown. “Why did you ask me to come then?” he asks in confusion.

Dr. Erskine laughs delightedly. “Dear Steven, I simply wanted to praise you. I found that your sketches were quite personal, and I did not want to disclose such a discussion during class.”

“What do you mean?” Steve’s voice is small, barely audible with bewilderment.

“You know your muse well; he is very near and dear to you. It can be seen in the delicate but focused lines of your pencil. You press very lightly against the page, tracing your muse quickly down on paper, because your attention is focused on your muse rather than your drawing.”

“Oh.”

Steve mumbles a quick excuse and escapes from the room, but the conversation plays on loop in his head for days on end.

In English, on the other hand, Mr. Coulson’s class nears the end of _The Great Gatsby_. Despite Bucky’s grumblings, he is always quite invested in their discussions in class and puts his best effort into every essay assigned.

Finally, the day after the class has read the last chapter of the novel, Mr. Coulson announces a new project, one that will basically determine their first quarter grade.

“It’s a partner project,” he says, and the entire class cheers. “But, remain informed that you will be working closely on this project for weeks, and, if you do not split the work equally, both partners will be heavily penalized. I want a project log of every day you work on it.”

There are a few groans and boos from the class, but Steve and Bucky listen with careful intent.

They are to choose a chapter from the book, rewrite it in a different genre or setting, and give a dramatic reading in front of the class.

Except Mr. Coulson has ambitious standards, and, given the sample rubric he hands them, this will not be an easy task.

“Hey,” Bucky says eagerly, nudging Steve to gain his attention. “Work together?”

“Of course,” Steve sighs, rolling his eyes. “Who else was I going to ask?”

Bucky scoffs with mock-disgust and returns his attention to their teacher.

And just like that, the next two weeks pass by while Steve stretches himself thin to cover all his classes, Bucky’s ice skates of life start to teeter as he begins to struggle with his grades slightly, and they stay occupied with the English project.

“Who knew that sophomore year would be so fucking difficult?” Bucky groans in frustration, tossing a textbook on Steve’s dorm room floor as he fails to study for Chem.

“At least it can’t get any worse,” Steve remarks, hopelessly boring holes into his math textbook to memorize formulas.

//

The first of the worst days of Steve’s life starts out typically.

He slips out of bed exactly at 6:30 a.m. and makes his way to the bathroom that he shares with Gabe. After fifteen minutes- during which Steve has brushed his teeth, showered, and dressed -he unlocks the door and finds Gabe sitting up in bed reading.

With a quick but friendly nod of greeting to his roommate, Steve grabs his necessary school supplies and makes his way to the lobby where he meets Bucky, handsome and bright in the morning and causing Steve’s heart to ache. They trek across campus and into town to join Tony and Natasha at their usual coffee shop. Steve picks up his daily order of decaffeinated coffee and a croissant breakfast sandwich, wincing as he watches Natasha and Bucky down black coffee.

Steve has had a sip of Bucky’s usual drink; it tastes as bitter as he imagines death would be.

Tony splashes a solid amount of vodka in his own coffee, describing it as a “morning pick-me-up,” but, as predicted, it is snatched from his hand by Pepper and dropped into an empty trash bin. Instead, Rhodey slides a giant, steaming chocolate-covered and chocolate crème-filled donut under Tony’s nose, and Steve groans, knowing that Tony will be incorrigibly hyper for the rest of the morning.

In a predictable twist, Steve interrupts his people-watching and sketching to rescue his cell phone from Tony who insists on downloading his latest attempt of an AI onto Steve’s device. Beside Natasha, at the other table, Bucky snickers from where he sits getting an early start on a homework assignment.

Later in the morning, Steve attends Pre-Calc and then Art where Dr. Erskine gives the class a free period to sketch so as to not pressure his students since they had turned in their first major project only a week ago. In English, he slides into his desk beside Bucky with only seconds to spare before the bell rings.

Mr. Coulson lectures the class for a half-hour about the presentations and projects of his past students. He firmly reminds them that their ongoing project will be a major percentage of their first quarter grade and that they only have a few weeks left. He then dismisses the class to work with their partners.

Bucky rolls his eyes and then grimaces at the loud screech his desk makes against the tile floor as he tries to drag it closer to Steve’s. “How many times is Coulson going to remind us about it? It’s hard enough reading _The Great Gatsby_ , but rewriting it to make it more interesting and earn a decent grade?” He groans, burrowing his face into the crook of his elbow. “I hate this book.”

“Gatsby is very problematic. But Daisy is even worse. She’s a liar and a murderer,” Steve muses.

“She deserves Tom. He’s an abusive, cheating son of a bitch,” Bucky says, though his words are muffled through the fabric of his sweatshirt. He raises his head and rubs at his chin. “Seriously, though. Did you have to pick the last chapter? The most boring pages of the book are in there.”

Steve tries his hardest not to stare at his best friend’s mussed pompadour, which only serves to make him even more attractive to Steve, but fails. Thankfully, Bucky is distracted as he mopes about _The Great Gatsby_. “You let me,” Steve retorts.

“That was before I knew you were planning our funeral, buddy.”

“Fine,” Steve says decisively. “We’re working on our project after school. My room. Gabe won’t be there; he’s helping his cousin Trip with something.” When Bucky attempts to protest, he continues, “Also, I know that you already don’t have a badminton game. Your soccer practice got cancelled because of yesterday’s rain. And your robotics team meets every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Today is Tuesday. So, you have no excuse.”

Bucky opens his mouth to speak but hesitates. He appears lost in thought for a moment before shutting his mouth abruptly. “Dammit,” he complains weakly.

Steve smiles triumphantly. “Good.”

The rest of the day goes by quickly: AP European History, Chemistry, and Steve’s most dreaded class: PE.

When Steve returns to his dorm, he finds Bucky waiting inside for him, sitting at Steve’s desk.

“Gabe let me in,” Bucky explains, fiddling with Steve’s pens.

Steve drops his bulging backpack on his bed and pulls out his English notebook, a pencil and eraser, and his copy of _The Great Gatsby_ before moving to stow his backpack in his closet. “Alright,” he says, climbing onto to his bed and sitting cross-legged. “Let’s get started.”

Bucky joins him on the bed, his own copy of the novel in hand. He’s frowning slightly, and Steve peers at his best friend anxiously.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I dunno,” Bucky says, almost angrily. “I’ve got the weirdest sixth sense that something’s going to go terribly wrong today.”

Steve snorts good-humoredly. “You always feel like that.” Carefully, he flips his notebook open to the next empty page. “Last time, it was because you thought that your dad would find out that you’d ditched on his latest campaign fundraiser.”

For a moment, it seems as if Bucky will protest but, eventually, only sighs and shifts to be more comfortable on Steve’s bed. “I guess.” He grins winningly at Steve with the patent Barnes smile that his father uses to bring in more voters.

It’s a charismatic and attractive expression on Bucky’s already handsome features, and Steve’s stomach flip-flops apprehensively.

Bucky sets to rereading their chosen chapter as Steve begins to brainstorm various settings for their rewrite.

During the next thirty minutes, there are only the sounds of Steve’s pencil against paper as he frowns at his work or Bucky’s audible reactions to what he reads. Finally, Bucky slams the novel shut with evident relief, startling Steve from his focused thinking, and sets it down on the bed. “Ugh,” he groans. “It was just as boring as I remembered it being.”

Silently, Steve hands Bucky his notebook and watches as he peruses the page with quick, clever eyes. He pauses after reading before asking in astonishment, “You want to make _The Great Gatsby_ into a mystery?”

Steve flushes, still holding his gaze. “It was just an idea, jerk.”

“Stevie, buddy, no offense, but let’s keep it that way.” Bucky shakes his head with false disapproval. His expression softens as he becomes lost in thought, and only a few moments later, he shouts in inspiration, eyes brightening. “What if we set the novel after another war?”

“What?” Steve is only able to say in befuddlement.

“See, _The Great Gatsby_ is set after the Great War, right?” Bucky says matter-of-factly. “What if we set it after the Vietnam War or the Second World War-”

“Or after the Revolutionary War,” Steve interrupts.

Bucky scowls playfully at him, reaching to ruffle his hair as Steve barely ducks under his outstretched hand. “You’ve been listening to too much _Hamilton_ , punk.”

“I like it,” Steve declares.

His best friend snorts. “Of course you do. You’re like a modern-day Hamilton. Scrappy and always fighting.”

Steve’s fair skin colors an angry red as he blushes, avoiding Bucky’s gaze. “I only fight when someone’s being unfair.”

“ _Don’t be shocked when your hist’ry book mentions me. I will lay down my life if it sets us free. Eventually, you’ll see my ascendancy_ ,” Bucky sings in a falsetto, shocking Steve with his verbatim. “ _And I am not throwing away my shot_ -oomph.”

Steve has no idea why he decides to rise on his knees until he is level with Bucky and presses his lips to the other boy’s, muffling his words.

Bucky’s lips are velvety-soft but slightly chapped against his own, and Steve kisses his stunned best friend blindly, their noses bumping awkwardly, for a few moments.

Eventually, instinctively, Bucky responds by increasing the pressure against Steve’s lips and brings a gentle hand to cup Steve’s jaw. Steve sighs into the kiss, his abandoned pencil digging into the side of his knee.

Just as Steve shifts to make himself more comfortable on his bed and tilts his head into the kiss, it’s over.

The lack of Bucky is felt almost immediately as he rips himself back from Steve, stumbling backwards on his knees until he sits up abruptly. He stares at Steve with unfamiliarity, not hostility or anger but simply confusion written in the pressed line of his slightly pink mouth and in the hollows of his cobalt eyes.

Steve drops back to sit facing Bucky, his eyes unable to stray from the other boy.

 _I’m so sorry_ , he wants to blurt out. _I never meant to do that._

Or: _That was a mistake. Please don’t hate me._

Instead, he says hesitantly, “Bucky?”

Bucky’s eyes widen, focus on Steve, and fill with panic.

Then he _bolts_.

Steve impulsively has half a mind to chase after him and even leaps to his feet but decides not to. He dejectedly walks over to shut the door that Bucky left open in his haste. Then he crosses back over to his bed, shoves everything-notebook, pencils, and all-to the floor, and collapses face-front on top of it.

Later, as an adult, Steve will come to consider _this memory_ , the moment of his first kiss, among the most profound of his life. It will become his favorite memory.

In a few days, it will be tinged bittersweet, the memory of both his first kiss and Bucky’s reaction, but will be a nostalgic reminiscence.

But right now, in the abrupt aftermath, heart heavy and aching, lips still remembering the echo of the kiss, Steve can only wait until the tears come.

He cries for the first time since he was a child, tears leaking from his eyes and dampening his comforter, sobs muffled by the material covering his bed.

//

When Gabe returns a few hours later, backpack slung over his shoulder, Steve is dry-eyed and calm. His eyes are still faintly red-rimmed, but that can be passed off as a reaction to Virginia’s October chill.

“Where’s Barnes?” Gabe asks casually, pulling binders and books from his bag to arrange neatly on his desk.

Steve flinches, but it goes unnoticed by a busy Gabe. “He left,” Steve replies. “Had work to do.”

Gabe nods and continues with his task.

By the time the sun begins to go down in the sky and the light begins to fade, Steve waves off Gabe’s offer to accompany him to the dining hall for dinner.

He cowers instead on one corner of his bed, arms wrapped around bent knees, and thinks.

_He doesn’t know what the kiss spells for his friendship with Bucky._

If Bucky needs time or space, then Steve can give him that. He can withdraw from going out in public; Steve does that occasionally already.

If Bucky needs something else, something more along the lines of permanent distance from Steve, then Steve doesn’t know how he will be able to cope with that but believes that he will be able to figure it out.

But _the kiss_ (and he doesn’t know when one insignificant kiss became _the_ kiss for him) looms heavily in the forefront of every thought in Steve’s mind.

It keeps him up through the night too; even Steve’s stomach, stuffed with leftovers Gabe brought, can’t lull him into a sleepy daze.

//

The next day, Steve perches restlessly in his chair, waiting for Bucky to enter their English classroom and to demand that Steve move away from him. Surprisingly, Bucky is a no show, not even darting into the classroom just as the bell rings.

Bucky _never_ misses class, even when possibly on the deathbed. The Barnes value education above nearly everything and push their children to obtain both academic excellence and the same beliefs.

Mr. Coulson stands at the front of the classroom and calls attendance as he usually does, old-fashioned enough to use the clipboard and send a student to the school’s attendance clerk rather than entering the results on the computer as the other teachers do.

“Banner, Bruce,” he lists idly, ironic as he has memorized every student’s name and face.

When the curly-haired, lanky boy seated nearby the window raises his hand, Mr. Coulson moves on.

“Barnes, James?”

When no verbal response comes, Mr. Coulson glances up and scans the classroom, as if Bucky will appear, seated at his desk.

“Absent,” Mr. Coulson concludes causally.

Steve’s heart is thudding inside his frail chest, and he can _feel_ the panic tensing his shoulders up.

His stressed-out state is not aided by the fact that Bucky hasn’t been at school at all today, which he discovers after a quick chat with Gabe who shares several classes with his best friend.

“He wasn’t at dinner yesterday either,” Gabe tells him. “He’s probably got a cold and decided to stay in his dorm; Barnes is too strung-out this year so far, what with his two sports and a million extracurriculars.”

During lunch, Steve walks to the dining hall to meet Natasha alone, since Tony is already preoccupied, working on some major project he has nicknamed JARVIS with Rhodey and Pepper. Neither Steve nor Natasha have an urge to interfere with a coffee-deprived Stark.

“So appetizing,” Natasha comments dryly as Steve sets down the trays containing chicken alfredo and a salad in front of her.

“Hey. This is better than the slop that most high schools around the country are getting,” he reminds her despite the anxiety and worry setting his insides aflame.

“Yes,” she snarks. “This is what millions of dollars of donations from our money-deprived parents are going into: serving their children food from celebrity chefs.” Still, Natasha’s little smirk allows Steve to determine that she isn’t serious, a fact supported when she finally digs into the food that is somewhat flavorful with her plastic spork.

After a few bites, Natasha straightens and glances at Steve with eyes that seem to bore into his soul. “I can hear you sighing from here; what’s wrong?”

Steve sighs once more, and she rolls her eyes, motioning for him to talk as she takes another bite. “I can’t find Bucky anywhere. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“And…” Natasha trails off, expecting Steve to continue waxing poetic about his anxieties.

“That’s it.”

She raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow.

“It just seems uncharacteristic of Buck to skip class; I’m worried,” he states slowly.

“Nope.” She sets down her fork and shakes her head, scarlet curls bouncing around with the movement. “That’s not all. There’s something more for why you’re so concerned.”

He flushes; it’s as if Natasha knows about _the kiss_.

“No,” he stutters. “There’s nothing.”

“If you insist,” she replied airily, twirling her fork in the pasta. “Have you tried James’ dorm?”

“I was going to do that after lunch…” Steve says.

Natasha shrugs. “Well, what are you waiting for. Lunch is nearly over.”

Almost predictably, the bell rings, and students begin to move sluggishly to clean up behind themselves.

Excusing himself from the table and from Natasha’s company, Steve rushes out of dining hall and then hunches down on himself as he walks to Bucky’s building, prepared to confront the other boy.

If Bucky didn’t go to dinner or class at all, he’s far more affected by _the kiss_ than Steve expected.

Steve paces the hallway of Bucky’s dorm room for several minutes, drafting a long, formal speech in his head to deliver to Bucky.

It all evaporates from his mind as soon as he places himself in front of the door and raises his hand, curled into a fist, to knock.

He has no need to, however, because the door opens on its own. But it’s not opened by Bucky as Steve hoped.

Instead, the door is opened by Jim.

“Hey, Rogers,” he says in greeting. “What do you need?”

“Is Bucky here?” Steve blurts out suddenly.

Jim doesn’t even blink at Steve’s unintentional rudeness. “Nah,” he replies, “I haven’t seen Barnes since yesterday. When he didn’t come back after school, I assumed he was sleeping over in your room.”

“I haven’t seen Bucky since he ran out yesterday. Gabe said that he wasn’t at dinner last night, and he wasn’t at school today either.”

“Oh.” Jim shrugs. “I dunno; I’ve gotta run. I’m late for my track practice, but I’ll let Barnes know that you came by if I see him before you do.”

“Thanks,” Steve calls after him as Jim jogs down the hallway and out of sight.

 _Bucky’s probably just avoiding me_ , he tells himself in false reassurance.

//

After he searches all over campus and their usual hangout spots in town and Bucky doesn’t show up to a second day of school, Steve makes an executive decision and goes to Director Fury.

Even seated behind an impressive mahogany desk, Fury cuts an imposing figure, and Steve involuntarily stares at Fury’s forehead to avoid glancing at his eyepatch.

“What do you want, Rogers?” he asks gruffly.

“I’m here to report a disappearance,” Steve tells him.

“Do I look like the motherfucking police, son?”

“I was going to the police,” Steve says confidently, now holding Fury’s one-eyed gaze, “but I believe that you would like to be informed first, since the matter pertains the disappearance of James Buchanan Barnes.”

If Fury had any telltale signs of shock, Steve would guess that the slight widening of Fury’s eye was it.

“Go on, Rogers,” Fury orders after a pause of silence.

“I was apparently the last one to see him. We worked on a project in my room, and then he left. He didn’t go back to his room and wasn’t seen in the dining hall that night. Nor did he go to class for the last two days.”

Fury nods, listening intently. Once Steve is done talking, he speaks back up, “It’s been forty-eight hours, and, as per police procedure, Barnes can now be reported as a missing person.” He levels Steve with a sober gaze. “Knowing Barnes’ family and clean background, the police will take precedence on this case. You, Rogers, will help in any feasible way you can and do nothing to impede this investigation. It is not every day that the son of a senator disappears, let alone from one of the most secure boarding schools in the nation; both the police and I will want this case concluded as soon as possible before the motherfucking bleeding-hearted public turns Barnes’ case into a national tragedy.”

“I understand, sir.” Steve gives Fury a stiff yet respectful nod before exiting the office.

//

Head Detective Maria Hill of Roanoke PD is a tall, steely-eyed woman in her mid-thirties. She has mahogany brown hair swept into a sleek bun and is dressed practically in a white blouse, black trousers, and low-heeled boots.

Her partner, Detective Timothy Dugan, is another story.

“Call me Dum Dum,” he tells Steve when the detectives first bring Steve into the classroom cordoned off for their investigation.

“Dum Dum?” Steve echoes, dumbfounded.

“I know what you are thinking,” Detective Dugan says honestly, “What, in the name of the honest God kind of name is Dum Dum? My CO gave me that name, and, lemme tell you, pulling dumb-ass stunts in the Rangers will earn you a reputation.”

Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan is hulking and brawny with thinning fiery hair and a hideous bowler hat perched dangerously on his head that is at odds with his shirt and dress pants, but his eyes are soft as he seats Steve in a stray chair.

“Right,” Hill says, settling back against a desk imposingly. “Let’s get this investigation under way.” She clicks her recorder on and places it on top of the teacher’s desk. “Head Detective Hill and Detective Dugan. Case 32557038.” She turns toward Steve. “State your legal name and relation to the missing person.”

“Umm…Steven Grant Rogers. Best friend to James Buchanan Barnes?” he trails off awkwardly.

“How long have you known Barnes?” Hill continues.

“I’ve known Bucky since before I was even born,” he begins. “Our mothers were roommates at New York University and later close friends. We were neighbors out in Brooklyn before we both moved to the Upper East Side.”

“So, you’ve known him a very long time,” Detective Dugan establishes. “Director Fury’s report mentioned that you were the last person to see James-”

“Bucky,” Steve interjects before realizing what he had done and flushing, lowering his head and hunching down. When Detective Hill raises a questioning eyebrow, he explains, “Everyone who knows him calls him Bucky; not even his parents call him James.”

“You were the last person to see Bucky,” Detective Dugan continues. “Can you clarify when and where?”

“I last saw Buck when he left my room. We were working on a project for our English class and-” Now, Steve hesitate briefly, biting his lip anxiously.

He doesn’t want to confess about _the kiss_ ; that secret is only his and Bucky’s to share, and the police don’t need to know, but Steve also doesn’t want to lie and hinder the investigation.

In the end, however, he decides against telling the truth.

“We finished up, and Bucky left,” he finishes.

“Did you notice any odd behavior about Barnes, or did he mention anything about where he was going?” Hill questions.

Steve flashes back to Bucky saying _I’ve got the weirdest sixth sense that something’s going to go terribly wrong today._ His heart thuds with panic; had his brushing off Bucky’s concern led to Bucky’s disappearance? The guilt would be overwhelming if it was indeed Steve’s fault.

“I assumed that Bucky was just going back to his room,” Steve says honestly, “but, while we were working on our project, he did say that he felt weird.”

Hill leans in now, interested. “Can you be a tad bit more specific?”

“I believe Buck’s exact words were ‘I’ve got the weirdest sixth sense that something’s going to go terribly wrong today,’ but I assumed he was being dramatic. He feels like that sometimes but usually turns out wrong,” Steve confesses.

“What about in the days prior?” Dugan asks. “Did he ever act strange before? Did he have any problems with anyone that you may know of? Girl troubles or anything like that.”

Steve laughs, surprised by Dugan’s line of questioning, but he sobers once he eyes Hill’s chilly gaze. “Um, no,” he admits. “Bucky acted completely normal before. And, everyone likes him as far as I know. We only hang out with a few people, but he never had problems with anyone. As for girl troubles, Buck’s charming but only ever dated Connie Oswald for a few months last year, it never really went anywhere.”

“That’s consistent with how Fury described Barnes. Well-liked, calm demeanor,” Hill lists.

“Yup.” Steve nods. “That sounds like Buck.”

“What about his home life?” Hill inquires, tone taking a soberer turn. “Does Barnes have problems with his family, maybe his parents or their work?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Bucky loves his sister Rebecca; they’re the typical pair of siblings. As for Aunt Winnie and Uncle George, they always manage to balance their work with their home life.”

“So, Senator Barnes’ work never posed a problem?” Hill continues.

“No,” Steve answers, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips. “As I said, Uncle George always manages to balance his government identity with his personal persona.”

Maybe having caught onto Steve’s suspicion and irritation, Dugan moves the conversation in a different direction. “When did you first come to believe that Bucky could be missing?”

“After he left my room,” Steve begins, thinking carefully about his words, “I didn’t feel well enough to go out to the dining hall for dinner, so my roommate brought me food but told me that Bucky wasn’t at dinner.”

“Could Barnes have been eating out in town?” Hill interrupts.

Steve furrows his eyebrows. “Bucky could have, but he usually doesn’t. Plus, he would have been with either Tony Stark or Natasha Romanoff, and they both were eating in the dining hall.”

“Okay.” Dugan motions for Steve to continue.

“Then, Bucky didn’t show up to school for two consecutive days, and the Barnes are very strict about education, so it seemed very out of character for him to ditch class. He even showed up last year when he had the flu for a week.”

“Where else could Barnes be? Where do you two usually hang out?” Dugan asks.

“I checked all over campus for where Bucky could be, but you could check the 107th. It’s a café shop on the edge of town. Also, try the library and some of the restaurants around town,” Steve offers thoughtfully. He glances down at his hands which are currently fiddling with the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

“That will be all,” Hill says suddenly, ending the recording with a manicured hand on the device. “Thanks for your time, Rogers. We may contact you if we need to interrogate you again.”

“Thank you,” Steve replies quietly as he grabs his backpack and rises. “I hope that my answers can help.” When he’s near the door, he hesitates and twists around to eye Detective Hill. “Please find him,” he tells her genuinely, “he’s my best friend.”

//

It doesn’t take long in the end.

Head Detective Hill and Detective Dugan bring Steve in for questioning once or twice more; they also interrogate Natasha, Tony, Mr. Coulson, Connie, Director Fury, some of the members of Bucky’s badminton team and robotics club, Jim, Gabe, and some of the other Howling Commandos.

The detectives spend four days at SHIELD Preparatory Academy, interrogating and searching for Bucky.

But, there are no real leads, and therefore, there is no major investigation.

None of the Barnes are able to come down during the actual investigation. Becca cannot miss days of school by flying down. Winifred is stuck in the middle of breaking a major news story for _The Daily Bugle_ , and she can’t leave her newspaper unattended. George can’t abandon his campaign back in New York and raise suspicion about Bucky’s disappearance; it would be bad publicity for both the Barnes family and his campaign.

It feels like a betrayal from Bucky’s family, especially when Steve has _just_ told the detectives that both George and Winnie manage their work and their ability to care for Bucky.

On the last day of the investigation, the detectives make the most progress on the case and extend the investigation when they begin to favor the theory that Bucky disappeared on his walk from Steve’s dorm to his.

They start from Steve’s building and track various paths that Bucky could have taken.

After Head Detective Hill dismisses the theory that Bucky took a cab from town and escaped somewhere, due to Steve’s protests that Bucky would never do such a thing and Dugan agreeing that there was no basis to the idea, the detectives take a foray into the woods that border SHIELD.

Bucky’s building is on the edge of campus and so near to the trees that they can be seen through Bucky’s window and many students take to the forest for quiet walks or quick hook-ups. The detectives, and Steve silently agrees with them, believe that it is likely that Bucky strayed into the woods to think.

The forest is only a few miles long, and so the detectives scour it with a few officers, only taking a few hours.

When they emerge from the forest, however, Hill’s mouth is set in a grim frown, and Steve overhears Dugan call in more officers and a couple of police dogs.

“We found some DNA evidence,” Hill tells him, and Steve’s heart plummets in his chest.

He’s floating, with no gravity to ground him, when he hears himself ask, “What kind of DNA?”

“We can’t tell you that yet,” Hill explains, “but we are sending a sample to our lab back in Roanoke so that it can be identified. But, yes, it is possible that it belongs to Barnes.”

Detective Dugan claps a huge bear paw of a hand on Steve’s frail shoulder, and his knees almost buckle from the force of Dugan’s motion. “Stay hopeful, kid.”

It is only a quick day later that the lab sends back results confirming that, yes, indeed, the DNA belongs to James Buchanan Barnes.

Steve’s voice quavers when he video-calls Becca to tell her, and behind her, Winifred’s face is ashen.

Although the police are keeping the Barnes informed, Aunt Winnie mutters how much she appreciates Steve doing his best to tell them his version of the detectives’ technical truth.

Later, Steve phones his own mother, who, despite being busy, pauses to listen to him sniffle and spill his worst fears about Bucky. Still, he omits _the kiss_.

It is a foggy Wednesday in late October, exactly a week after Bucky disappeared, when the detectives and their officers and their police dogs slip into the forest again.

When they emerge, this time, they bring nothing with them.

No DNA evidence, no proof. Nothing

Nothing but a story.

Hill and Dugan tracked a probable path of Bucky’s from his dorm to a deep, rushing river that cuts through the center of the forest.

They found his DNA in the form of his blood stained across a little crevice in a rock on the bank of the river. It’s a tiny stain, but it’s enough and the only lead in the investigation.

They assume that Bucky came to the river, but he became distracted by something, likely a noise from a stray animal.

Bucky tripped and slipped down the steep slope of the river bank, bashing his head hard enough on a rock that it cut his head to draw blood and knocked him unconscious.

His body rolled into the river, where, still unconscious, he drowned. Then his body was likely swept away by the flood of water that caused the river to swell from the night of rainfall that followed.

Most of Bucky’s blood and DNA was washed away, but some of his blood dripped into the crevice in the rock and dried up.

“It is unlikely that a body will ever be found,” Hill predicts, and Dugan gives Steve a concerned look as his vision begins to blur and tears form at the corners of his eyes.

Steve bursts from the classroom and manages to make it to an empty stairwell before he collapses, sobbing loudly, huddled into a ball, the grief too powerful and overwhelming to bear.

A few hours later, George, Winnie, and Rebecca will arrive at SHIELD. A day later, Sarah herself will fly down for Steve and to grieve the boy who was her second son.

Some days later, Howard and Maria will arrive, and, after them, so will Anastasia Romanova.

There will be a brief but private funeral with a beautiful ceremony, where Rebecca will cry, Winnie and Sarah will clutch each other, and George will place a heavy hand on Winnie’s shoulder. Tony will actually throw back some vodka, and neither Rhodey nor Pepper will move to stop him. Natasha will be mysteriously teary-eyed, but no one will be able to confirm or deny that fact.

And, Steve?

Steve will pour his heart out and give a heartfelt eulogy that will bring more tears of anguish but also moments of laughter and joy about two boys and their mischievous antics.

But, that will be later.

For now, Steve has been damaged permanently by loss, his best friend and the boy who might have been his first love, ripped away, and--

 _James Buchanan Barnes is presumed dead._  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later.

“I give you SHIELD Preparatory Academy’s class of 2017!” Mr. Coulson cries eagerly from his place at the podium. Beside him, Director Fury stands stiff and imposingly, arms crossed across his chest, single eye focused somewhere in the crowd of cheering families.

As the marching band begins to play, Steve Rogers rises to his feet and begins to make his way out of the auditorium. Fifty-odd other students that he spent the last four years of school with walk along side him. His suit, tailored Armani, clings to his newly-muscular frame, and his blond hair is swept back neatly, styled with product. However, despite his polished appearance, his heart is drowning in sorrow.

 _It wasn’t supposed to be like this_.

Bucky was supposed to be seated in the second row of students, between Bruce Banner and Clint Barton. When his name would have been called, he would stroll onstage, pose for a picture with Fury and Mr. Coulson, wave to Becca, Winnie and George sitting somewhere in the audience. Then he would flash Steve a cheeky smile, and the blonde would blush brightly.

Since the time that he turned twelve, Steve had always imagined graduating alongside his best friend. The summer after graduation, they would traverse Europe, visit the Louvre just as Bucky had promised years ago, eat gelato next to the Coliseum. Then, when autumn came, Bucky and Steve would attend whatever prestigious Ivy League they had been accepted to, would live in the same dorm as roommates.

Except now, Bucky has been dead for over two years, and Steve is at their graduation.

Alone.

Since Bucky’s funeral, Steve had come out to his mother and his friends. He had dated Peggy Carter briefly in junior year before their friendly breakup. The same year, he had gone on a couple dates with a senior named Thor until they had graduated. Steve had not only joined the swim team, which had made him gain weight and muscle, but also started taking medication for his weak heart. He had been accepted by Harvard to study business.

All these changes in his life, and Steve’s only regret is that Bucky would never see them.

“Yo, Rogers!” comes Tony’s voice as he appears marching toward Steve. “Where are you lost in thought?”

“Just thinking.” Steve chuckles weakly.

“Don’t have to do that for a while, Steve-O,” Tony declares loudly in his ear, having shoved through the crowd to get to Steve’s side. “No more school!” he yells.

“We go to college in the fall,” Steve reminds him, but Tony either doesn’t hear or purposely ignores him.  

Outside the auditorium, Steve is enveloped in a hug by Sam. His best friend has already taken off his robe and bunched it under one arm, so he clings to Steve with the other.

“We did it,” Sam tells him, beaming ear to ear. “We survived.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “We did.” Despite his bleak mood, he manages enough of a joyful smile that he feels almost _cheerful_.

But Sam’s not fooled. “What is it, man?” he asks, handsome brown eyes watching Steve with concern.

“I just miss Buck,” Steve admits.

Sam smiles at him gently. “It’s only natural. We all thought James Barnes would be here right beside you, but shit happens.”

“Shit happens,” Steve agrees softly.

“Now.” Sam readjusts the robe and diploma tucked between his arm and shoulder. “Are you going to the party?”

“Party? What party?”

Sam shrugs. “Dunno. Someone who wasn’t Tony organized it. He already said that he wasn’t throwing a party for graduation.”

“Are you going?” Steve questions, fingers tugging at his tie distractedly.

“Nah,” Sam replies, shaking his head. “Gotta finish packing before we leave. What about you?”

“Have some goodbyes to say, and then I have to find my ma, but I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

After Sam disappears into the crowd, Steve moves further away from the auditorium’s entrance and bumps into Gabe and Jim. They exchange their goodbyes, promising to stay in touch, before Steve continues wading through the crowd.

“Steve!”

At the sound of his name, he whirls around just in time to be barreled into by Becca. She slips into his arms, glancing up at him with those blue _blue_ eyes that reminded him of Bucky.

“Were you going to leave on your road trip without meeting me first?” She pouts up at him, and Steve reaches to ruffle her perfect curls, but she ducks away from his hand. “Watch the hair,” Becca cries stubbornly.

Steve chuckles warmly. “I was looking for my ma,” he explains. “Have you seen her?”

She turns to glance over her shoulder and into the crowd. “Sarah was just behind me. She’s here somewhere.” She turns her luminous eyes back on Steve, and her lips curl into a frown as she nestles her head against Steve’s collarbone. “I miss him,” she whispers softly, eyes glimmering with the beginning of tears.

He only hugs her tighter. “I miss Buck too,” he murmurs into her hair, feeling his heart drop from his chest in sorrow.

“He would have been here,” Becca says, words muffled by Steve’s dress shirt. “I was supposed to be a junior here next year; I was going to help him choose the furniture for your dorm room. He’s never going to see me go to prom; he’s never going to see me graduate.”

“I know, Rebecca.” Steve sighs sadly. “I always thought that we would do everything together. I guess that fate had to interfere somehow.”

“Fate is a son of a bitch,” she responds harshly.

“It is.”

Becca sniffles into the fabric of his suit jacket. “Mom was crying earlier, before I left with Sarah. She and Dad wanted to come, but it was too painful.”

“Steve!”

Steve’s mother is moving rapidly towards them through the crowd, and Becca swiftly and discreetly wipes her tears without smudging her makeup on Steve’s shirt.

“Ma.” With his free hand, Steve embraces his mother, kissing her cheek.

She is slightly teary-eyed, a steady smile fixed on her painted lips. “I am so _so_ proud of you, Steve.”

“I love you, Ma.”

“Your father would have been proud of you too.”

“I know, Ma.”

“Help,” Becca murmurs, sandwiched between the Rogers family. “I am squished.”

Sarah chuckles and steps away, allowing Becca to slip from under Steve’s arm. Noticing how both of their eyes are suspiciously wet, she announces, “Is anyone else starving? I am.”

“There’s a decent Italian restaurant in town,” Steve replies thoughtfully.

Smiling, Sarah takes both Becca and Steve on either arm and walks in the direction of town, head held high and regal like a queen’s.

//

There is a honk outside of Steve’s dorm building just as he finishes packing and zips his backpack shut. Considering that the building is near empty, everyone having already returned home but Steve, there are only a few people who could be honking their car horn outside. He peeks his head out his window, and, predictably, there is a silver 2016 Nissan Quest parked down in the parking lot.

It was Peggy’s idea originally.

She had been in his dorm room one night. They were still dating and had decided to study frantically for their AP US history test together. Hunched over her textbook, she had announced:

“I don’t know why I should care about these _bloody_ states and cities considering that I have never been to any of them.”

Steve had glanced up from his own textbook, blinking. “I’ll take you.”

Peggy had frowned at him, flipping the page. “Really?”

Steve had shrugged in return. “Why not? The summer after senior year. We’ll go on a road trip across the country.”

Somehow, they became committed to the idea.

Tony caught wind of it and joined. Then Natasha wanted to come. Sharon wasn’t far behind after her cousin. Sam was the last person to decide to come, and he was also the only person that anyone of them had invited.

They got all the planning done as soon as they had finished their AP testing, and now, they could finally go.

Steve’s phone rings while he’s bringing his head back inside, and he picks it up to answer, placing it on speaker as he gathers his remaining supplies.

“Are you coming or what?” Natasha asks brusquely.

“Coming, Nat,” Steve says as he slips his wallet into his pocket. “Just grabbing a few things.”

“Well, hurry up.” Natasha ends the call suddenly, and Steve sighs.

He pulls the door shut behind him, heading downstairs to hand over his room key to administration before hurrying out the sliding doors. When he is mere feet from the van, the left side door slides open, revealing Sam seated in the middle row with an empty seat beside him. Tony and Sharon are crammed in the back, Natasha is driving, and Peggy is in the passenger seat beside her.

“Get in, Steve,” she orders, red lips pursing into a smile.

After dropping his backpack in the trunk along with the rest of their luggage, Steve slides in next to Sam, who slams the door shut.

“Here we come!” Tony cries dramatically. “The SHIELD Cross-country Road Trip of 2017 is a go. First stop…Columbus, Ohio!”

//

When it came to choosing their destinations, there had been several stipulations and conditions.

Most importantly, it had to be a city or state none of them had ever lived in before.

For obvious reasons, New York was out.

So was Washington DC since Sharon, Peggy, _and_ Sam lived there.

Peggy had moved to DC to live with her older brother after her father, a British politician, and her mother, an American diplomat, died in a car crash overseas. Her cousin Sharon lived nearby; the Carters, a family of CIA legacies, remained in their ancestral home just outside of the capital.

Sam, on the other hand, had lived in Harlem before his family moved to DC because of his mother, a celebrity chef with her own show on Food Network.

Finally, they decided on a variety of cities, all heading far away from Virginia.

And, now, they are headed to their first stop, three hours into their road trip, Natasha at the wheel.

Behind Steve, Tony is fixated on his phone. On their left side, Sharon is staring out the window, watching trees and houses blur by. Next to Steve, Sam is napping, head lolling against the glass of his window. And, up at the front, Peggy is reaching a hand over to the radio to raise the volume of her NPR program.  

Bored, Steve decides to listen in, straining his ears to hear over the sheer noisiness behind him.

“In current news,” the broadcaster begins soberly, “Supreme Court Justice Roger Dooley was found dead in his home in Albany, New York earlier today. Though the official autopsy is yet to be released, a source close to the Dooley family hinted that Justice Dooley’s heart condition may have contributed to his death. Dooley, a vocal supporter of free health care, suffered a cardiac arrest three years ago at the age of sixty. Born in New York, Dooley attended Columbia University and briefly served as the head of the Strategic Scientific Reserve. He was elected to the Court by President Matthew Ellis six years ago. Dooley claimed the court of Chief Justice Earl Warren as a major influencer for his own decisions. Justice Roger Dooley will be survived by his wife Loretta and two children.”

Steve shivers, grateful for his own heart medication.

His mother would be dismayed; as a surgeon, she is a major advocate of free healthcare and had taken a major liking to Dooley.

“What a shame,” Peggy murmurs, just loud enough to be heard over the radio. “His campaigns turned so many heads to the poor medical conditions for those who can’t afford proper care. My brother was an avid supporter.”

“Well, what happens in life must happen,” Steve muses in return.

The NPR broadcaster has moved on from the subject of Dooley’s death, and Steve turns his attention back to the radio, curiosity piqued when he hears the broadcaster speak about the 2020 presidential campaign.

“In other news, Senator George Barnes made an appearance at New York University’s graduation as the commencement speaker. He was accompanied by his wife and media publications mogul Winifred and their teenaged daughter Rebecca. Barnes, beloved by the citizens of his state of New York, is a prime candidate for presidency, and the public is waiting for him to announce his candidacy any day now. So far, his only contender is former Secretary of State Alexander Pierce, who announced his campaign earlier this year. Many expected Barnes to announce a late campaign for the 2016 presidential election, but any plans were destroyed by the sudden but tragic death of his son James Barnes in 2015. Any announcements from Senator Barnes are yet to be made, but he will be able to count on the votes of millions.”  

“Pierce,” Sharon says suddenly from the backseat. “He’s a slimy little fucker. He’s met with my family many times, but he always creeps me the fuck out.”

Tony glances up from his phone. “Yeah. He spent years trying to convince my dad and Stark Industries to fund some military experiment he had going on.”

Steve shakes his head. “Making him president would be just as good as declaring war.”

//

They reach Columbus, Ohio two hours later and drop off their luggage at the motel rooms. Having only half a day left before nightfall, they split up to cover various parts of the city.

Sharon and Natasha decide to tour the German Village Historic District. Tony is joined by Sam at the Center of Science and Industry. Peggy and Steve spend the day at the Franklin Park Conservatory.

Steve wanders the vast garden with Peggy at his side as she snaps pictures of various floral arrangements. Occasionally, he stops to slide onto a bench and take down a quick sketch of the flowers, tourists who pass by, or even just Peggy gazing at flowers.

Soon, the sun has disappeared from the sky as evening looms near, and they grab a small meal from a local Chinese restaurant before returning to their motel.

Though their group has booked two rooms, all their luggage was deposited in the room the girls declared to be their own, and that is where the rest of the group has already gathered.

“Where’s Tony?” Steve questions as he drops his messenger bag on the table.

“Outside.” Sam motions toward the window distractedly as he thumbs between channels on the televisions. “Talking with Pepper.”

Steve peers out the window and does indeed find Tony with his ear glued to his phone.

“I never thought that I would see the day when Tony Stark had a serious girlfriend,” Steve states, chuckling, as he takes a seat on one of the beds beside Sharon.

Natasha, lying beside Sam on the other bed, laughs loudly. “You still haven’t seen the day.”

Taken aback, Steve gapes at the red-head. “But…I thought they were dating…”

“It seems that way, doesn’t it?” Sharon chimes in, glancing up from her phone. “But they are still dancing around each other.”

“We have a bet. I thought they’d profess their love before graduation.” Natasha scowls. “They didn’t.”

“I have my money on before Tony goes to MIT,” Sam adds, turning his attention away from the television and to Steve instead.

“Well,” Peggy begins, eyes glittering wisely. “Distance does make the heart grow fonder. I reckon that one of them will confess by the end of this summer, Wilson.” She seats herself on the couch in the corner of the room.

“What do you think, Rogers?” Natasha calls, hair spilling vividly against the white bedspread.

“I think,” Steve responds sassily, “that we should not interfere in one of our friends’ love life and instead concentrate our efforts on improving our own. Or, rather, improving our lack of one.”

“Is that how it is?” Sam asks, smirking.

“That’s how it is,” Steve responds cockily.

Tony chooses that moment to return to the room. “Who’s ready to party?” he announces loudly. “I located a nightclub on the next block.”

Everyone groans.

“Tony,” Steve says, “we have to leave early tomorrow so that we can spend the entire day in Chicago. I think that everyone just wants to sleep.”

“Besides, Stark,” Natasha adds wickedly. “No one wants to see your skinny ass attempting to dance.”

Tony fakes a scowl. “Okay, one, no one asked your opinion, Prima Ballerina. And, two-”

“And, two,” Sam interrupts. “This ballerina can kick your ass and has before.”

“Although that’d be interesting to watch,” Sharon says, yawning, “the boys need to leave, so that we can sleep.”

“Yeah, we’ll let you get your beauty sleep,” Tony drawls, barely dodging a pillow that Sharon heaves at his head as he leaves the room.

//

Late morning the next day, Sam parks their minivan outside their motel rooms in Chicago. After they drop their luggage off inside, they return to the vehicle, this time with Steve in the driver’s seat.

“We’re going to the Chicago Riverwalk, right?” Steve asks as he inputs the location into the built-in GPS on his Starktech phone.

The Chicago Riverwalk is an open front walkway that borders the Chicago River, offering views that are to die for. Steve devotes an entire three pages in his sketchbook to taking down the scenes of the pedestrians of Chicago. Sam and Sharon, who wander off to Millennial Park a little later, come back with the camera rolls on their phones full of pictures of greenery and awe-inspiring skyscrapers.

Tony, Steve, Natasha, and Peggy, meanwhile, have a late lunch at a local sandwich shop, where Steve disgusts the girls and Tony by ordering a sub with mayonnaise. They settle down to eat at a table near the water.

“I swear, darling,” Peggy comments, wrinkling her nose and shifting her open sandwich away, “that cannot be healthy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Steve protests as a glob of white creamy substance drips to the wrappers of his sandwich. “Mayo tastes good.”

“And looks like something that all teenage boys are familiar with, besides their right hands,” Tony notes dryly just before Natasha smacks him on the head with her purse. He glares at her in response, nursing the sore spot with the hand not supporting his own sandwich.

“People are eating here, Stark.”

“You didn’t have to hit me for that, Romanova!” Tony complains, staring at Natasha critically.

She shrugs, taking a nonchalant bite of her lunch. “I wanted to.”

Steve chuckles lightly, but his heart feels heavy. Nowadays, months after Bucky’s death, sorrow and grief hit him in the most unexpected of ways. Currently, he cannot help but flashback to the afternoon of Tony’s End of Summer Bash in the summer before sophomore year.

“Rogers.” Natasha snaps her fingers in front of Steve. “Eat up. Your disgusting-ass sandwich is getting soggy.”

//

That night, they sleep in the motel before grabbing a quick breakfast from McDonalds. Tony offers to drive, but Sam cuts him off, smile curving jokingly, “You drive like a rich, white boy. I want to make it to Sioux Falls alive.”

Tony scowls, but he goes with it and takes a seat in the back while Steve sits up next to Sam in the passenger seat.

They drive eight to nine hours non-stop, breaking only for lunch, gas or rest stops, or the occasional scenery. By the evening, their minivan enters the city of Sioux Falls, South Dakota, passing the majestic falls for which the city is named on their way in.

“I wish we could stay longer,” Sharon says wistfully, gazing at the rushing water.

“We can’t,” Sam reminds her. “We’re on our way to Rushmore tomorrow.”

“We can’t fit touring the entire country in three months,” Peggy says wisely. “We already picked and chose our stops, Shar.”

Steve goes to sleep, later at night, on a surprisingly soft motel mattress. He finally has a bed to himself, Sam and Tony snoring away on the other, and exhaustion hits him as he sinks into the mattress. In moments, he is out like a light.

“Steve!”

The faint morning light is filtering in through the curtain-covered windows of the room when Peggy shakes Steve awake.

“Steven Grant Rogers!” she hisses quietly.

“Wha? What time is it?” Steve slurs.

“It’s late enough,” Peggy explains, unpainted lips quirking into a friendly expression. “Sharon is in the shower back in our room. Tony is still asleep, but you know he takes long showers, so go now.”

Heeding her advice, Steve gathers his clothes for the day and stumbles toward the room’s bathroom. The chilly water of his shower clears his mind a bit, chasing the fog of sleep away. When he steps out of the stall, he wipes his skin dry with one of the motel towels and dresses in the cargo shorts and tee shirt he brought.

By the time he exits the bathroom, Tony is awake, blearily sipping coffee that Natasha has procured.

“Where did you get that?” Steve asks curiously as Nat hands him a steaming cup. He takes a sip and wrinkles his nose; the coffee is stronger than he is used to as the only caffeine Steve usually consumes is in chocolate, soda, or the so-called sugary coffee drinks of Starbucks.

“I have my ways.” She smirks mysteriously, painted nails startlingly vivid against the white Styrofoam of her own cup.

“Forget I asked,” mumbles Steve into his cup, head craned low, before taking another quick sip.

Sharon strolls into the room through the door that has been propped open, Sam behind her, both toting plastic bags of what are likely food containers.

“Found a diner nearby,” Sam says in explanation when Steve raises a questioning eyebrow.

Only a few moments later, Peggy reappears in the room, returning from her own. In the time that Steve had showered, Peggy had done her hair and makeup, and he smiles upon seeing her. Though Steve finds her beautiful with or without makeup, there is just something about Peggy without her red lipstick that makes her seem almost un-Peggyish.

“Shall we eat then?” she asks as Sharon, Sam, and Natasha unpack the containers onto the shitty coffee table the motel provides. Behind them, Tony fetches what is likely to be his third cup of coffee.

Sharon and Sam have brought standard breakfast food: a couple of scrambled eggs, two plates of pancakes, one plate of waffles, and a giant jug of orange juice.

Within ten minutes, all that is left of the food is crumbs.

Steve stares mournfully at the remains of the waffles, likely some of the best he has ever tasted, before turning to his friends. “We gotta go now, or we won’t make it to Rushmore.”

//

The minivan has been cruising on a deserted highway for three hours, half-way to Mount Rushmore, when Steve finally gives up on reading an e-book on his tablet and resorts to staring out the window instead.

Tony, also growing bored of fiddling with the internal mechanics of his phone, eyes the scenery. “Will we ever see anything other than miles of grass? Maybe a tree or two?”

Steve snorts in amusement. “It’s not a bad view.”

“It could be more exciting,” Tony shoots back.

“Shut it, boys,” Natasha’s sleepy voice floats down from the front, and both Steve and Tony stiffen. “People are trying to sleep.”

The conversation in the vehicle quiets down for a few moments before Sam speaks up.

“How long do you think we’ll spend-?”

With a sudden raspy screeching of metal, the vehicle rockets off the road, slamming to the side and down.

As the infrastructure of the minivan crumples around him, Steve can hear one of the girls behind him scream.

But, as he turns around, he is shoved aside by momentum, body straining against the ungiving restraint that is his seatbelt. His head knocks against the side of the minivan door, and he blacks out.

//

When Steve comes to, he’s still strapped into his seat, laying on his side. Next to him, Peggy is awake, staring up with wide eyes, a trickle of blood running across the side of her face.

“Pegs?” Steve grunts quietly, his sides aching even to speak.

“Steve?” Peggy replies, voice heavy with bewilderment and the slightest bit of pain. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he says genuinely, “but we need to get out of here.”

Peggy shifts a little against her own seatbelt but to no avail. She tries tugging at it. “It’s jammed, Steve!” Panic makes her tone more high-pitched. Her hands fumble at the release mechanism. “I’m trapped.”

“Hold on, Pegs,” Steve says soothingly, despite his own racing heart. “I’ll help you.”

His own hands tremble as he reaches for the release mechanism of his seatbelt. It takes him a few tries before he finally hits the button, his seatbelt retracting with a swish. Unsupported against his seat, he rolls forward a little, whimpering as his bruised side rubs against any available surface.

With slow, steady movements, he hunches on the floor before inching forward to Peggy’s side. “I’m here, Peg.” Around him, he is aware of his other friends slowly shifting in the wreckage and making noises of pain.

Finding Peggy’s seatbelt to be undeniably jammed, Steve looks around for something sharp and strikes gold when he finds a scrap of glass from the shattered windows of the minivan. He clutches it gingerly and places it over the tough fabric of the seat belt before beginning to saw through it. “Hold on, Peggy,” he murmurs again as she hisses in frustration.

Finally, the seatbelt falls apart in his hands, and he drops it, keeping a hand on the glass. Peggy scoots forward, wincing in pain.

“Now what?” she whispers.

Steve looks out the shell of the window to the road.

Natasha has already made her way out of the wreckage. Tony and Sharon are climbing out the back while Sam pulls himself through the empty space of the windshield.

“I don’t know,” Steve admits, “but we need to get out of here first.”

Carefully, he crawls out of the wreckage, cautiously placing his opens palms around the shards of glass scattered on the grass. When he has moved a safe enough distance, he rises to his feet and returns to the vehicle to extend a hand to Peggy, who accepts it.

Natasha hurries to their side and helps him pull Peggy from the vehicle and to her feet. The redhead is just as ruffled as Steve, curls falling on her face, skin scratched up by glass, a giant purple bruise on her temple.

“Is everyone okay?” Steve calls loudly to the rest of his friends, who are gathering close to the road.

“Just scrapes and bruises,” Sharon confirms, looking amongst Sam and Tony. “We’re fine.”

“What happened?” Sam asked worriedly. “There was nothing in front of me on the road.”

Steve shakes his head, indicating that he is just as clueless as Sam, as his gaze travels over the minivan.

His eyes widen.

The wreckage is not _natural_ , doesn’t look like the result of an accident. The way the minivan is smashed _in_ , the damage littering the grass around it.

It’s almost like something _punched_ their minivan off the road.

Steve doesn’t have time to dwell on that strange fact however, because, at that exact moment, Peggy releases a hair-raising shriek.

Steve whirls around as Peggy is knocked off her feet and lands on her back, stunned.

Then, to everyone’s horror, she slowly rises from the grass, floating higher and higher until she hovers above their heads. “What the _fuck?!_ ” she screams in frustrated bewilderment as she struggles to get back to the ground.

With a violent jerk, Peggy is tugged towards the road, and she is helpless to resist.

On the road itself, a frightening figure appears from the distance, stalking closer with ghostly grace.

“Who _the_ hell is that?” Sam murmurs from besides Steve.

Steve doesn’t take time to react; his eyes are already flickering over the figure, assessing the lithe, likely masculine, frame, the chestnut hair that spills down to the shoulder, the muzzle-like mask covering his features, sheaths of knives and holsters of guns strung over a muscular torso, the _fucking_ metal left arm that is rolling its fingers rhythmically.

By the time that Steve can make the connection that the man is somehow drawing Peggy to him, that the man is using _telekinesis_ and he should be wary, Steve has already scooped a metal scrap of the wreckage no larger than the lid of a trash can and is darting forward, adrenaline thrumming through his veins.

Steve throws a close-fisted punch at the man’s stomach, but it is swiftly dodged with a jump backwards.

In response, the man’s metal hand slips to a sheath strapped to his side and withdraws a knife, flipping it with deftness between his fingers. Then, with incredible speed, he hurls it at Steve’s neck.

Barely able to blink, Steve reacts in a split-second, twisting backward so that the knife flies over his shoulder. If he had reacted a few seconds late, the knife would have embedded itself in his throat.

The man switches the knife to his right hand and throws a confusing series of blows at Steve, alternating with his metal and flesh fists so quickly that Steve is unable to keep up.

Steve’s opponent is well-trained, and Steve, who has only been relying on his natural reflexes, is surprised that he lasted this long against the man.

Finally, the man throws one last punch with his metal fist straight at Steve’s face, and the blond is forced to bring up the scrap of wreckage as a shield.

To Steve’s surprise and shock, the metal arm punches with _such immense strength_ that the metal of the minivan wraps to the shape of its fist. The force of the punch is enough to knock Steve backwards a few steps, and he stumbles, falling to his knees.

Before the man has an opportunity to further attack Steve, Natasha is flipping onto his shoulders from behind and wrapping her thighs around his neck, squeezing to restrict his breathing, in a move owed to her years of ballet and martial arts training.

The man’s eyes, a shade of startlingly familiar blue, widen slightly, and he grunts in surprise. His metal hand claws at Nat’s legs, latching on her ankle in what must be a painful grip and trying to loosen her thighs. When he is unsuccessful, his eyes harden, and Nat is _wrenched_ from his neck and thrown backwards.

She recovers quickly, landing on the balls of her feet, but, before she can spring forward, Steve launches up and charges the man, headbutting him in the stomach.

As he stumbles backwards with a pained noise, Natasha moves to strike his neck, but the man is too agile and slips from her grip. They continue a quick dance of punches and blows, each hoping to land one on the other.

With the danger distracted, Steve risks a glance back at his other friends. Peggy is still stuck in the grasp of the man’s telekinesis, but Tony, Sharon, and Sam are rummaging through the wreckage, attempting to find a rope of some other tether they can use to tug Peggy down.

Natasha grunts loudly as she is hit in the stomach, and Steve leaps forward, grabbing the man’s flesh arm and twisting the wrist until he drops the knife, the man giving a brief loud scream. Natasha drops down and lands blows to the man’s legs, but he doesn’t stumble this time. Instead, he manages to wrench himself free from Steve and reaches a hand up to grip Peggy’s ankle as she drifts nearer.

The instant his hand encloses around her skin, Peggy lashes out, manages to club the man in the side of his head with her heel. Still, he doesn’t let go.

Then, Peggy lets out a scream that seems to shake the ground and that radiates in Steve’s bones.

A soft ball of white light glows around her and then spreads backwards, covering her surroundings. It is warm and welcoming and distinctly _Peggy_ as it washes over Steve without affecting him, but it launches the man several feet backwards.

Peggy slips from the air and lands on her feet with grace and elegance that only she could manage.

Their attacker hits the ground with a loud thud and rolls back to his feet swiftly, but his mask, having been loosened by Peggy’s wave of energy, drops to the gravelly road.

Steve’s world is knocked out from under his feet; the emotions, the pining, the heartbreak, the sorrow, that he has suppressed for years returns like an ironic punch, and his mind spins out of control, unable to formulate any thoughts.

As with _the kiss_ , this memory will become a monumental one of Steve’s life, and he will replay it over _and_ over again in his mind until it becomes distorted and no longer true to the actual moment.

“Bucky?” he gasps breathlessly, the air having been knocked from his lungs by his stupefaction.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” the man growls, speaking for the first time, his voice raspy from his scream but still unmistakably James Buchanan Barnes.

Steve’s heart crunches itself into a tiny, crushed ball, but, before he can react, he finds himself shoved backwards by an invisible force.

“Watch out!” Sharon screams from besides the wreckage of the minivan.

Tony, Sam, and Sharon barely manage to dive for cover in time to avoid being hit by parts of the vehicle that are flung at them.

Finally, Steve glances up and finds that Bucky has disappeared amongst the chaos.

“I don’t know what the fuck just happened,” Sam says as he rises to his feet and brushes grass off his clothes, “but we need to get the fuck out of here.”

“I second that notion,” Peggy growls, teasing her wind-wrecked curls back into a manageable ponytail. “It would be very bad for us if the assassin returned and found us here.”

“Bucky,” Steve mutters quietly, still in shock, the colors around him dull and grey. He keeps flashing back to the moment when his world narrowed and refocused itself on James Barnes.

“What?” Tony asks, clever eyes darting back and forth between Peggy and the wreckage.

“The assassin was Bucky,” Steve speaks again, more volume and force to his voice.

“Rogers,” Natasha begins with a frightening cold fury, sounding every bit of the Black Widow that the socialites call her, “I don’t care if that was Barnes’ ghost returned from the grave. He nearly killed us, and I don’t think we’ll survive another encounter with him if we meet him like this.”

“Let’s go,” Sharon agrees, stressing her words with great emphasis.

//

There’s a small town nearby, one that Natasha had luckily remembered from when she poured over the GPS in the passenger’s seat. It’s got a population of less than a thousand, but it’s the closest area to take refuge in.

Having gathered all they could carry of their luggage and walking about twenty to thirty minutes to arrive at the edge of town, Steve and his friends settle behind the town’s overly-large welcome sign.

It is quickly decided that, after a quick debate and pooling together the only cash they each have in their wallets, that Tony, as the most presentable-looking out of all of them, will be the one to get the motel room for the night.

Surprisingly, it only takes Tony ten minutes to return with about a hundred and fifty dollars, roughly three-fourths of the cash they sent him with, and he hustles the rest of them to the shitty motel closer into town.

Somehow, they sneak onto the motel’s premises without being noticed, and Tony unlocks the door of the motel room with a stifled jingle of keys.

The room is standard of a motel: two dusty beds, one couch, a nightstand with a lamp placed on top as well as a Bible in one of the drawers, and an attached bathroom with a leaky toilet but, thankfully, running water.

The walls are a putrid orange, which Natasha comments on dryly before turning and hauling the door closed and throwing the door’s deadlock shut.

Finally, they are all able to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

“I need to wash this awful shit from my hair,” Natasha announces, breaking the awkward silence that had begun to thicken in the atmosphere.

Sharon laughs weakly to fill the silence, but no one joins her.

Tony whirls around to face Sharon and Peggy, both seated on the floor, backs braced against one of the beds. “Okay! Anyone else here hiding any shocking and fantastic abilities they’d like to disclose? I’m open to suggestions!” His tone is layered heavy with sarcasm, though Steve can detect undertones of panic and fright.

“I’ll explain everything,” Peggy replies tiredly, rubbing a hand over the bridge of her nose and then running it through her mangled hair. “I swear.”

“Will you?” Tony explodes. “Were you ever going to tell us you’re a mutant? That someone may be after you? That our lives are in danger?”

The accusation rings loudly in the room; it is in Tony’s nature to lash out when betrayed, but he is close to crossing a line with Peggy here, someone just as stubborn as he is. Steve starts to open his mouth to interrupt, but the aching deep in his bones keeps him from wading into the argument.

“I had really hoped that the mutant thing would never come up,” Peggy says sheepishly, and Sharon turns to glance at her with a gaping mouth.

“Really?” she gasps angrily, “You were never even going to tell me.”

“Look,” Peggy responds forcefully, “my kind is perceived as dangerous in popular media. We are hunted down for sport in some states! There are no laws to even proclaim us as citizens of this or _any country_! So, forgive me for attempting to keep my cousin and friends safe and happily ignorant!”

No one can ignore the level of truth to Peggy’s statements.

Mutants were thought to be a myth, a conspiracy theory from UFO-hunting crazies.

Until two decades ago, when a pyrokinetic mutant decided to set fire to one of the largest shopping malls in LA.

Mutants were labelled as dangerous and inhuman, and a faction of mutants even went so far as to claim that slur as their title. Politicians and anti-muties don’t find it too far of a stretch to label mutants as terrorists.

Mistreated and abused, mutants are considered second-hand citizens in society. There are no laws to regulate them or to hunt them down, but it won’t take long now, considering the current political climate.

Sarah Rogers had raised Steve to consider mutants as he considered regular humans, and he always thought he would meet one someday.

He just never thought that it would turn out to be his ex-girlfriend.

“Were you always a mutant?” Steve asks hoarsely, startling everyone.

Peggy turns to stare at him. “No,” she replies honestly. “It’s only been a few months since I first manifested my powers. Remember my car accident with Michael?”

Shortly after the Valentine’s Day weekend, Peggy and her brother Michael had been returning to SHIELD when they were struck by a car. There were only minor injuries; Michael had a few shattered bones in his foot, and Peggy had some terrible bruises, but overall, they remained fine and recovered well.

Sharon stares at her cousin in wonder. “Is that why you avoided me for so long?”

Peggy nods. “I was so shaken by the crash; I kept flashing back to when Mum and Dad died. The emotional stress kept getting to me, and, by the end of the week, my hands wouldn’t stop glowing white. That’s when I figured it out.”

“That you were a mutant,” Sharon breathes softly.

“I’m really, truly sorry. I didn’t know that someone would be coming to hunt me down,” Peggy offers awkwardly, glancing up at Tony.

He grimaces. “Oh, fuck it. I overreacted.” Tony runs a hand through his flattened hair. “I think it was just the shock getting to me. I honestly have no problem with you being a mutant, Queen Elizabeth.”

“I don’t, and I don’t think anyone here does either,” Steve adds sincerely, and there are sounds of affirmation from Sam and Sharon.

“Romanova? Would you like to say something?” Tony asks, turning a critical eye on the oddly-silent redhead.

“What?” she snaps defensively before sighing and clapping her hands together in front of Peggy. “No, Carter. I have no problem with your genetics. I’m _slightly_ more worried about the assassin that just came after us.”

“Right, about that.” Tony cracks his knuckles and withdraws his laptop from his satchel. “We need to do this defensively. If this guy is going to come after Carter again, then we need to know who he is and how to fight him.”

“I agree, but.” Peggy yawns, bringing a hand to muffle her mouth. “I could drop dead any moment. I’m that tired.”

She does look exhausted, tangled hair, deep dark circles under droopy eyes that struggle to stay open, body slumping against the bed.

They all look exhausted, bedraggled and dusty and scarred. Steve can feel aching in his muscles from where he overexerted them.

“We need to rest,” he decides. “We all do. Any action can be planned in the morning.”

They settle into their respective places, Sharon and Peggy on one bed, Sam and Steve on the other, Natasha on the spare couch, and Tony on a nest of blankets stripped from the beds.

“Tony,” Steve says seriously, peering over the edge of the bed at the brunet who has his laptop placed in his lap. “You need to sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah. Steve-O. I’ll sleep eventually.” Tony sneaks a quick peek at Steve before continuing to clack away at the keys of his laptop.

//

Steve doesn’t know when he drifted off, but his eyes open again to faint morning light drifting in through the corners of an otherwise covered window and Natasha setting down a plastic bag on the nightstand between the two beds.

“Natasha?” he gasps, bolting upright. Thankfully, Sam is already awake and sitting on the floor next to Sharon, otherwise he would have likely fallen off because of Steve’s sudden movement. “You went out?”

“Sharon and I did.” She nods, the hair tucked up in her ponytail swaying with her motion. “We got food.”

“What if the assassin found you?” Steve demands almost angrily.

_What if Bucky found you?_

Steve still doesn’t know how to react to the fact that his best friend is possibly alive and possibly an assassin after Steve’s friends, mainly Peggy, but he doesn’t believe it would be smart to bring it up with everything they’re dealing with right now.

“We were careful.” Natasha rolls her eyes, but she does lean over and place a patient hand on Steve’s shoulder. “We took precautions. You forget who Sharon is.”

“The daughter of spies,” Steve breathes. “Sorry. I’m just on edge.”

“Not your fault.” Then the softness fades from Natasha’s jade eyes, and her usual wicked smile returns as she drops a foil-wrapped item in his lap. “Eat up. Tony has something to tell us.”

//

Tony swivels his laptop screen around until it faces Sam, Sharon, Nat, Peggy, and Steve, all jammed together on the floor, food in hand. “Meet the Winter Soldier,” he declares.

The picture he’s gesturing to is of a black blur on a rooftop, barely discernible as a person and barely discernible as the assassin that had chased after him if one ignored the silver blur that was likely his metal arm.

Tony taps at a stray key on his laptop’s keyboard, and, immediately, the screen changes to a redacted document with lines of numbers.

Sam squints, leaning in closer to peruse the screen. “Are those dates?” he asks in disbelief.

“Death dates,” Tony confirms, taking a large bite of his breakfast.

“Where did you get those?” Steve questions suspiciously.

“I may have hacked into the CIA database.” Tony shrugs.

“ _Illegally_!” Steve adds hysterically, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Steve, darling. Right now, I believe that’s the least of our concerns while we may be running for our lives,” Peggy responds kindly.

“Fine.” Steve settles back down, unwrapping his own breakfast. “I just…we don’t need the government after us at the same time as an assassin.”

“Relax.” Tony waggles his eyebrows at Steve until Natasha whacks him on the back of his head. “Fine.” He clears his throat with a cough, sobering up quickly. “I was extra-cautious. Besides, I’ve been doing this since I was ten.”

“Moving on,” Sharon says impatiently.

“Right.” Tony highlights the dates on the screen with a quick tap of a button. “This guy really is an assassin. A dozen kills from when he first appeared two years ago. He shows up and then disappears in a matter of seconds. No one has gotten a clear view of him. This was the best picture the CIA had.”

“What’s his connection with mutants?” Peggy asks, raising an eyebrow. “Are any of his victims mutants?”

“No,” Tony says. “But, it looks like he has been linked to a few kidnappings, all of which are teenagers.”

“Most likely mutants…” Sam theorizes. “Which is odd, because he seems to be one.”

“Wait.” Natasha leans closer to the screen and taps a specific date. “That’s the day after graduation.” She turns to glance meaningfully at Steve. “Who do we know who died that day?”

It takes Steve only a few moments to come to realization. “You think that the Winter Soldier killed Justice Roger Dooley?”

“It’s likely,” Peggy states in agreement. “But, why?”

“I don’t know,” Tony says gravely. “But, we have no information on who this assassin really is.”

“I do.” Steve straightens his spine when all gazes turn to him. “His name is James Buchanan Barnes, and we all thought he died two years ago.”

“Steve.” Natasha sighs. “It’s not possible. James died. The police declared him dead.”

“I agree with Steve,” Sam adds supportively, and Natasha turns her glare on him. “What? There was no body.”

“Besides,” Tony states. “We all saw him. We can’t deny that the assassin looked uncannily like Barnes”

“Fine.” Natasha shakes her head. “Even if that was Barnes, he would never kill people.”

“Something happened to him,” Steve surmises, all his heartache returning. “He didn’t even recognize me. And, he’s a mutant apparently.”

“It fits with my theory, though,” Tony says, and Steve stares at him in bewilderment. “All of the Winter Soldier’s victims were government officials or business men and women. My point is, they were all powerful people. And, if Buckaroo is the Winter Soldier; well, he’s clearly not himself. So, if someone were to be controlling his actions…”

“Perhaps, an organization…” Sharon muses, catching on.

“One that has a need for mutants and assassinations. Probably, a secret one.” Peggy’s voice is bitter as she balls up her wad of foil and tosses it into the trash can besides her.

“We need more information. We need time. And more resources,” Sam says.

“I have somewhere we can go,” Tony speaks suddenly. “My family has a house in Colorado. It’s secure, and we can hide out there, but we have to get there first.”

“So we leave in a few hours; we don’t stay here longer than we need to,” Steve decides. “But, we’ll need cash.”

“And we need to stay under the radar,” Sharon adds. “So, we can’t use our credit cards or contact our families.”

“We’re all at risk now,” Sam agrees gravely.

//

“Hi,” Steve tells the middle-aged woman politely, flashing her his best bland smile. “We’re here to purchase a car.”

“Of course,” she replies. “We have a wonderful selection. Anything in mind? A specific color or make?”

“No.” Natasha giggles, swinging the hand clutching Steve’s back and forth. “Still have those student loans to pay off. Any vehicle in our price range would work.”

“I completely understand,” the saleswoman assures them, under the assumption that she is assisting a pair of college-graduates.

Sharon, Peggy, and Natasha had carefully crafted disguises for all six of them, generic and plain enough to be forgettable. Natasha’s fiery curls were straightened and dulled by brown hair dye. Peggy, on the other hand, now sported a blunt, shortened cut of black hair.

It had been disconcerting for Steve to see his ex-girlfriend without her sleek mahogany curls and vibrant lipstick.

Even Peggy had agreed; upon seeing herself in the mirror, she had winced before dryly complimenting her cousin’s handiwork.

“May we look at your vans?” Natasha asks, smiling falsely. “This one has a huge family.” She punches Steve lightly on the arm, and he releases an awkward chuckle, but the woman seems to lap it up.

“I love young couples,” she sighs wistfully.

Steve feigns another chuckle.

He has been instructed by Sharon to limit his talking and interaction; apparently, he cannot quite mask his distinctive Brooklyn twang. Natasha seems to be able to pull off an accent that sounds passably Midwestern, which isn’t surprising considering her knack for picking up and speaking languages almost fluently.

So, he tunes out Natasha charming the saleswoman and follows them around until Natasha hands over a thick wad of bills and, in return, is given a pair of rusting keys.

“Enjoy your new car!” the saleswoman says cheerily.

When she has drifted away far enough, Steve quirks an eyebrow in disbelief. “That’s all it took to buy a car? She didn’t even ask for either of our licenses or registration.”

“Good thing, too. Our ruse would have fallen through the moment she glanced at any ID.” Natasha sighs. “I love small towns, such a slow, relaxed pace of life.”

“You’d die out here after a week.” Steve snorts. “We’re city kids; New York flows in our blood.”

She jingles the keys in front of Steve’s eyes. “C’mon. Let’s check out our van. We have a tight schedule.”

They have bought a minivan with no branding or identifiable marks, and the fabric of the seats inside is ratty and well-worn but clean.

“This will do,” Steve comments decisively.

“Get in,” Nat orders as she slides into the driver’s seat. “We’ve got some vagabonds to pick up.”

//

When the minivan parks outside the motel, Sam, Tony, and Sharon are waiting in front of the room’s door.

“It’s so hideous.” Tony wrinkles his nose as he examines the minivan.

“We don’t get choices on the run,” Sam reminds him with exasperation leaking into his voice. “Now, we have to get a move on.”

Steve opens his passenger door, steps out of the van, and hurries inside the motel room, where he finds Peggy seated on the couch.

“Are we moving now?” she asks, clutching the strap of her bag.

“Yeah.” Steve slips his own backpack over his shoulder and grabs Natasha’s in his other hand. “Can you grab the plastic bag from the table?”

Peggy exits the motel room with her head ducked down and clambers straight into the backseat, wedging herself to one side. Sam eventually joins her in the back. Sharon takes a seat in the middle, and Steve reclaims his seat in the front as they all wait for Tony to return the key to the front desk.

“Do we have everything?” Natasha inquires.

Sharon glances over their own individual luggage, seemingly running through her mental checklist. “Sam and I sorted through the clothes and anonymously donated everything we can’t carry. Tony was in charge of stocking dry goods and any supplies he may need.”

“I think we’re good,” Sam summarizes.

They all breathe a collective sigh of relief when Tony appears next to Steve’s window, reaching for the handle of the minivan. He slides inside, secures his seat belt, and slams the door shut.

With a sudden roar of the engine, Natasha stomps on the gas pedal, and the minivan screeches against the asphalt as they zoom away from the motel and eventually past the town’s welcome sign.

//

Tony has surmised that it will take them about six hours to reach the safehouse, but Sharon vetoes the direct route, claiming that this organization they believe is controlling the Winter Soldier (“Bucky,” Steve corrects her with an insistent tone.) will be able to track their movements and locations.

“They could investigate our families’ property records. They’ll know about the Stark properties,” Sharon insists.

“My dad doesn’t have all of his properties on record,” Tony explains. “Including this one.”

“Still, we can’t take any chances,” Sharon shoots back fiercely. “Not when my cousin’s life is one the line.”

“Your cousin can speak for herself,” Peggy interjects, “but I agree with Shar. It seems to be the safest option.”

So, they detour their route to Omaha, Nebraska.

Three hours into their journey, Tony demands that everyone hand over their cell phones.

“What?” Sam’s eyebrows knit together in bewilderment. “The fuck? Why?”

“I can use their parts to create prototype devices that we could use. Electroshock weapons, Tasers, anything that gives us an advantage.”

“I didn’t even think about that,” Steve admits, stunned.

Tony grins. “Looks like I can surprise you sometimes.” He drops every cell phone handed to him onto the seat between him and Sharon. “Give me a few hours.”

He keeps tinkering, and they keep driving.

By mid-afternoon, they reach just outside of Omaha, where Natasha declares a lunch break before switching seats with Steve.

Sam and Sharon grab sandwiches from a nearby deli, and everyone eats in the minivan before Steve takes the wheel.

Steve drives until the sky darkens and night begins to fall. Occasionally, Natasha or Peggy will sprout up a quick conversation that will eventually fade away, but the occupants of the minivan remain mostly silent apart from Tony, who occasionally swears quietly under his breath.

When his hands begin to tire from gripping the wheel and his eyes begin to droop, Steve parks outside a public rest stop.

Finally, Sharon decides to drive for the last stretch, and he takes her seat in the middle. Nestled between the vehicle’s door and Tony, Steve drifts off to sleep to the minivan’s slight but gentle swaying.

A few hours later, Steve is awakened by the vehicle jolting forward as Sharon takes her foot off the brake pedal.

“We’re here,” she announces softly, as Natasha, Peggy, and Sam are all asleep. “This is the only motel outside of Wichita for miles.”

“In due time, too,” Tony adds. “I need to be able to see what I’m doing.”

“No, Tony,” Steve corrects him groggily. “You need to sleep.”

After Natasha retrieves a motel room key from the reception desk, they hustle into the room, and Sharon throws the deadbolt, locking it behind them.

“I’ll take the couch,” Steve offers, and before anyone can protest, if they were going to, he flops down on the said furniture after removing his shoes and falls back into his dark, dreamless sleep.

//

He is flung awake by a hair-raising _screech_ of the motel room door as it flies off its hinges; startled, Steve falls off the couch and onto the solid floor with a thud.

“Grab the girl.”

The voice that conveys the order is raspy, like nails scratching against a chalkboard, low, and undeniably masculine; the heavy footfalls that follow obey the voice and head toward the bed that Peggy shares with Sharon.

“Get your fucking hands off her,” Sharon screams. Judging from the muffled thump and grunt, she lands a successful punch on one of Peggy’s assailants.

There’s another smack, flesh hitting flesh, and Sharon snarls.

“You’re going to regret doing that!” Peggy rages. Without any warning, she emits a blinding white glow that she directs towards her captors.

“Fuck! I can’t see!” one of them exclaims, and, in the fading light from Peggy’s powers, Steve can see a muscled figure flailing, hands flying to rub at their eyes.

Sharon releases another grunt as she presumably overpowers her assailant, and, there is sound of struggling until there isn’t.

“Soldier!” the raspy voice orders.

Peggy cries in alarm before there is a resounding thud, and, at that moment, the lights switch on, so bright that Steve ducks his head, forcing his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. When he glances back up, he finds Peggy laying crumpled on the carpeted floor besides the cracked wall, broken plaster littering the carpet around her, a trickle of blood dampening the edge of her temple.

“Finally. The bitch couldn’t have been that good to withstand our Soldier.”

An imposing man in thick armor moves to stand in the center of the room, a squadron of four soldiers standing behind him; his cruel eyes and wolfish smile incite a hostility in Steve. This man is no one to be trifled with.

“Don’t call her a bitch, you bastard!” Sharon spits at him.

The man cocks his head, fixing Sharon with a thoughtful stare. “What do you want me to call her then, girlie? Mutie? Inhuman? Monster? Any name won’t change the truth; your precious friend,” he toes Peggy’s limp body with the tip of his black combat boot, and Steve clenches his fist in fiery rage, “is dangerous. A threat. And we have our own weapon to take care of her.” The man steps aside to reveal the ~~Winter Soldier~~ Bucky in a soldier’s stance, outfitted entirely in his black armor except his mask.

“Bucky,” Steve utters in shock, finally getting the energy to move, his eyes fixated on his best friend. “Buck!”

Bucky doesn’t respond, cobalt eyes drilling chillingly at Peggy.

“Oh, this is rich,” the man crows, tipping his head back and laughing maliciously. “You were the one who recognized the Soldier.” He straightens up and affects a higher-pitched tone. “ _Who was the man on the mission? But I knew him_.”

“Buck,” Steve tries again, his tone endlessly pleading, but Bucky nevers turns to glance toward the blond.

“He won’t recognize you; he doesn’t remember you. He, nay, it, only knows its life after it was reborn.” The man brings his hands together in a single clap that echoes around the room. The men behind him raise their guns and aim them at Steve and his friends. “Bring the girl.”

“Don’t touch her,” Sam exclaims from where he kneels behind the first bed, but the man and his underlings pay him no heed.

Two of the soldiers stride forward and heave Peggy’s body up from the ground, carrying her toward the door and disappearing behind the mass of remaining soldiers; Steve watches helplessly, any heroic action he would have wanted to attempt dissuaded by the guns pointed at him and his other friends.

“Soldier,” the man orders, mouth stretched wide to reveal a row of perfect, gleaming teeth. “Take care of them.” He gestures to Steve and his friends on the other side of the room with a single wave. “You know what to do.”

He sweeps out of the room, taking Peggy and his men with him, leaving Steve and his friends to face the Winter Soldier.

“Bucky…” Steve attempts to plead but is ignored.

Natasha launches up, hands ready and in a fighting stance, but, in a surprisingly split-second move, the Soldier swiftly turns and wraps his metal hand around the soft skin of her neck in a crushing grip. She sputters on her breath, choking, as the Soldier begins to apply pressure.

From beside him, Sharon springs to her feet but freezes unnaturally, the Soldier’s mental grasp keeping her still on her toes. She grunts under the uncomfortable position that her feet are forced into.

“Don’t do this, Bucky,” Steve pleads, words carrying around the motel room. “This is not you.”

“Shut up,” the Soldier finally says in a gravelly, unused voice. “I don’t know you.”

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.” His voice doesn’t waver. “I’ve known you for your entire life.”

“Shut up,” the Soldier repeats more loudly. “You’re my mission.”

Steve doesn’t flinch at the response; as much as he wants to shy away, his gaze travels to a struggling Natasha and a frozen Sharon, and he is reminded that only his words could have any effect in this precarious situation.

Steve powers on. “We’ve lived side-by-side in Brooklyn for over a decade. Your mom’s name is Winifred; your dad is George. Rebecca is your little sister; we call her Becca.”

The Winter Soldier growls, his eyes widening with unidentifiable emotion. His telepathic grip on Sharon begins to waver; Steve spots Sharon’s fingers trembling as she fights against it.

In that moment, Tony strikes, tossing a jumble of electronics at the Winter Soldier, who is too slow to react.

It rolls to a stop next to the Soldier’s booted foot and _sparks_ , arcs of electricity jumping from the grenade to his metal arm and spreading throughout his body.

He releases a brutal scream, and Steve flinches, uncomfortable to see his best friend in pain.

The Soldier’s arm begins to spasm, the hand around Natasha’s neck loosening ever so slowly. Finally, another painful blue arc of electricity forces his hand open wide, and Natasha slips down, landing nimbly on her toes. She rubs the bruised handprints around her neck and hisses, slinking backwards and away from the Soldier.

His attention overwhelmed by pain, the Soldier loses telepathic control of Sharon, and she stumbles back a few steps, flexing her toes and hands.

The Soldier throws his head back, his eyes rolling up so that the whites are revealed. His knees tremble once, twice, and, then, he collapses, dropping to the ground like a stone, breathing subdued.

After a few moments of silence pass awkwardly, the tension thick and palpable, Sam asks with concern, “Is he dead?”

Sharon prods the Soldier’s body with the tip of her bare foot, sneering when he doesn’t react. “No, just unconscious.”

“What was that, Tony?” Steve demands, almost horrified.

“An EMP grenade.” Tony rolls his shoulders, and his spine crackles. “Or, at least, my version of one.” When Steve’s expression doesn’t dissolve, he frowns. “You can thank me, you know. I just saved Widow’s and Blond Agent’s lives here.”

Sam steps forward, placing a welcome comforting hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Look, man. The Soldier may have been Bucky, but he isn’t right now. Until we can figure out how that happened, it is better that we do our best to stay alive.”

“We need to rescue Peggy,” Sharon says harshly.

“We do,” Tony begins, “but we need to get to the safehouse first.” Sharon opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off, continuing. “You saw how badly we were overpowered. If it wasn’t for my grenade, you’d likely be dead. We need to strategize, to have a plan.”

“I’m sorry, Sharon,” Steve says with a heavy heart. “Tony’s correct. As much as we need to save Peggy, going in without a plan would be suicide.”

Sharon swallows dryly a few times, her face going through various expressions that Steve cannot pinpoint. Finally, she frowns slightly but nods. “Alright. But we will take as little time as we possibly can.”

“Agreed.”

At that point, the unconscious soldier by Natasha’s feet makes a feeble sound, appearing to rouse, but Natasha kicks him hard enough in the head to knock him back to sleep.

“What do we do with this guy?” she questions.

“We leave him,” Sam replies practically. “But we take Barnes.”

She gives Sam a sharp stare of approval before squatting and rifling through the soldier’s belt and armor. “This is a tranquilizer,” she says, holding up what appears to be a traditional gun outfitted with glowing blue pellets instead of bullets. “He has an actual gun, a couple of knives, and this.”

A pair of thicker-than-normal handcuffs dangle from Natasha’s spare hand, and Tony snatches it up, examining their unusual circuitry.

“These appear to be some kind of power inhibitors,” he declares. “They could be meant for the Soldier.”

“Put them on him,” Sharon states immediately.

Tony obediently snaps the cuffs onto the Soldier’s thick wrists before stepping back and admiring his handiwork. “Is there a key?” he questions.

“Found it,” Natasha responds, pocketing said key.

Outside the lone window of the motel room, the sun is beginning to break out in the sky, and Steve orders, “Let’s go.”

The others grab their bags while Steve and Sam lug the unusually-heavy Soldier outside, dumping him in the trunk of the car.

Steve gazes down sadly at his best friend, so vulnerable and young. “We’ll save you too, Buck,” he whispers.

//

When Tony had described the safehouse as _small_ , Steve hadn’t known what to expect. The Starks’ tastes were elaborate and expensive, even for the Upper East Side; one glance at the expansive Stark Tower was all it took for one to know.

He had imagined a ten-room ski resort-like mansion with, he doesn’t know, something like an observatory attached behind it.

Instead, the Stark Colorado home is as close as you could get to a cabin in the woods, albeit slightly larger.

When he had first seen it, after six hours of crazy driving by Natasha and two bullets of the strange tranquilizer used on the Soldier to keep him knocked out for the entire drive, his jaw had dropped.

 _Modest_ is the best word to describe it, five rooms, three bathrooms, an enormous kitchen, a stone-tiled fireplace, and a view of the wildlife to die for.

“Did your family downgrade?” Natasha asks dryly as they step through the front door.

Tony flashes her a money-winning smile. “Nah, dear old Dad thought that we should be able to experience life as normal people sometimes.”

“I think ‘normal people’ is a bit subjective,” Sam comments as he eyes what appears to be a holographic or 3D projector.

Tony shrugs.

“Have you got anywhere we could isolate Bucky?” Steve asks seriously.

“Thought you’d never ask.” Tony strolls over to the fireplace and messes with the tchotchkes set on the mantle, shuffling some around and growing more frustrated when nothing happens. “I know it’s one of these,” he murmurs under his breath, but everyone can still hear him, voice amplified by the high-beam ceiling of the living room.  

Natasha sniggers.

Finally, an exasperated Tony shoves at a wooden statuette of a moose, and it swivels to the side, almost like it’s on an axis. Then, there is a low scraping sound as the entire fireplace shifts to reveal a pair of steep stone steps leading into a darkened space. The entire entrance is covered by thin, light blue streams of laser.

“Holy shit,” Sam exclaims. “This is like some James Bond shit.”

Tony steps forward, and a cool, cultured voice asks, “Voice recognition. Please speak loudly and clearly.”

“Anthony Edward Stark,” Tony enunciates, carefully pronouncing each syllable.

“Acknowledged,” the voice replies. “Proceed to the second stage of identification.”

He places his thumb on a scanner that has protruded from the side of the doorway, holding it there for a half a second before the voice speaks up again, “Verified. Welcome, Mr. Stark.”

Immediately, the web of lasers dissipates.

“Isn’t that the AI from the Starktech phones?” Steve asks curiously.

“Yup.” Tony nods distractedly, peering down the stairs. “JARVIS. Dad created him before I was born, based off his old friend and butler. He’s kinda like Dad’s PA. There’s a simpler, less sophisticated version of him on Starktech devices.”

“I will try not to take offense to that, Sir,” JARVIS says, and Steve tries not to jump.

“Is he in the entire house?” Sam inquires.

Tony shakes his head. “Only in Dad’s lab. And, J? Dad doesn’t need to know about our foray here, at least not yet.”

“Acknowledged, Sir,” JARVIS replies before quieting down.

The Stark turns back around to address his friends: “What are you waiting for? Let’s go.” He begins to climb down the stairs, Steve and the others trailing closely behind.

“What even is down here?” Sharon’s voice floats down to Tony as he reaches the end of the stairs.

He hums. “Oh, just Dad’s workshops and labs. A few highly-secure vaults where we can put Buckaroo. Some materials and supplies I can raid.” He pauses and waits for everyone to gather around the entrance. “J? Lights.”

JARVIS obeys, and the basement is flooded with light as the overhead bulbs flicker on.

It’s nothing remarkable, just a large workspace with a few benches and lab tables, a minifridge and kitchenette in the corner, a few doors lining the sides.

“Huh,” Sam scoffs. “It’s so plain.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Steve asks his friend in amusement.

Sam shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe a decapitated robot head, a jet pack. Something crazy.”

“You won’t find that shit here,” Tony explains, “Dad keeps all of his cool inventions back home in Stark Tower. There’s probably just scraps here.” He leads them further into the room and to one of the doors. “JARVIS, add four more access keys to Vault A and to the basement lab in general. Steven Grant Rogers. Samuel Thomas Wilson. Natasha Alianovna Romanova. Sharon Katerina Carter.”

“Of course, Sir,” JARVIS replies. “Access keys added.”

“This is Vault A. Highly-secure. Locked by voice, facial, and password protection,” Tony tells them.

“What’s with the security measures?” Sam says.

“My dad’s an inventor; he’s crazy paranoid,” Tony replies, as if that explains everything. “Now, Vault A is a temperature- and air circulation-controlled room, so Robot outside in the minivan should not suffocate or freeze to death.”

“Right.” Steve clicks his tongue, mind racing. “Let’s get him in here.”

Once again, Sam and Steve are in charge of dragging Bucky’s limp body, moving him into the room as Steve avoids staring down at his best friend, and Tony secures the vault and the lab.

“Barnes won’t be able to bust out of all of this,” he explains. “At least, not with those cuffs still on.”

//

“What do we know?” Tony asks as he wheels an oversized whiteboard that he found in some storage closet down in the basement lab into the living room. His voice makes Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Sharon look up from where they are seated on the luxurious couches.

“Don’t you have some kind of holographic screen or something?” Natasha eyes the whiteboard with curiosity.

Steve laughs as he adjusts his positioning on the couch, only to sink further into its plushness.

Tony snorts. “Nah. Dad saves the good tech for our main residences. We don’t come here very often. Hence, the whiteboard.”

“Can’t we focus,” Sharon snaps, bristling as her body radiates with impatience. “Every minute we waste, the more Peggy’s life could be in danger.”

“Right. What do we know about this organization?” Tony poses next to the whiteboard, Expo marker in hand.

“They hunt mutants,” Sam jumps in immediately.

“Right-o, Sammy boy.” The marker squeaks against the whiteboard as Tony begins to write; he turns back when he is done. “What else?”

“They’re some kind of spy or military organization,” Steve adds. “They obviously have trained soldiers.”

Tony scrawls on the whiteboard, head tilted at an angle as he listens to Steve.

“They have advanced tech.” Natasha holds up the tranquilizer gun pointedly.

“Yes, they do.” He brandishes his whiteboard marker at her. “But they don’t have a Stark. I’m going to take a look at the mechanics of that gun and the chemical makeup of its bullets. Try to recreate some.” Tony shrugs. “But I’m a mechanic, not a chemist.”

“They have Peggy,” Sharon states, eyes narrowed and focused on Tony. “And, they have some interest in the government.”

Steve nods in acknowledgement. “It’s possible they killed or ordered a hit on Roger Dooley.”

“And they use the Winter Soldier to carry out these hits. He could be their only assassin or just one of them.” Tony adds his point to his growing web of information on the whiteboard.

“They have the ability to wipe memories and/or, brainwash.” Steve’s lips curl into a frown.

“Yes, yes. That too,” Tony murmurs. When he’s done writing, he steps back and takes a good look at his work. “Anything else?”

“We don’t know enough,” Sharon voices in frustration. “We need an upper hand, a way in.”

“We have a way in sitting in the basement downstairs,” Sam reminds her.

“Yeah, but he’s tried to kill us before. I’m not sure he’ll be easy to reason with.” Tony punctuates his point by waving the whiteboard marker in the air.

“Then we just have to appeal to whatever there is of James left in him,” Natasha replies logically.

“And what if there is none of Barnes left in the Soldier?” Sharon asks almost coldly.

“There is. There is some Bucky left in the Soldier; it’s not a lot, but it’s enough,” Steve speaks up, bowling over Sharon when she attempts to interrupt. “No, Shar. You never met Buck; I’ve known him his entire life. _I know_ that he’s still in there somewhere.”

“We need someone to interrogate him,” Sam says, frowning at the thought.

“I’ll do it,” Steve announces, but immediately, he’s shot down.

“No, Rogers,” Sharon says. “That’s a terrible idea. You just said yourself only moments ago: you’re too attached to him.”

“I’ll go,” Natasha says.

“I hate to agree with Romanova, Steve,” Tony adds, “but, she’s correct. She’s the only one who would even stand a chance against the Soldier besides Sharon, and she knows him just like you do so that she can recognize if it’s actually Barnes.”

“Fine,” Steve agrees, drooping further into the couch.

//

Natasha returns upstairs after half an hour, face stony.

Upon seeing her expression, Steve’s hopeful smile slips from his face. “What happened?” he asks. “Is Bucky okay?”

She sighs in response, running a hand through her already mussed hair. “That’s the problem, Steve. I don’t want to disappoint you, but that was definitely not James.”

Steve’s dismay and devastation must show on his face, because she continues. “He’s still in there. Without waxing poetic, I can tell you that I could recognize some of his mannerisms and the sentiment in his eyes, but he already wasn’t that responsive in the first place.”

“Thanks, Nat.” Steve places a comforting hand on her shoulder and smiles gently at her, though his relief is feigned.

Sharon materializes at Natasha’s side, lips pursed together. “What did you find out?”

“Not much,” Natasha says ruefully. “He never really said anything. Kept muttering something about heads.”

“What?” Tony says as he and Sam stride into the living room, having been fixing themselves a meal in the kitchen.

“Does _Cut off one head, two more will grow in its place_ mean anything to you?” Nat asks.

Sam shakes his head in refusal immediately, and Tony frowns thoughtfully for a few moments before saying, “Nope. Sorry.”

But, Steve’s brow furrows as he thinks back to the Greek myths he used to read with his mother as a child. “Cut off one head,” he mutters in repetition, “two more will grow in its place. Heads…heads…”

“Do you recognize it, Steve?” Sharon jumps in, tone hopeful.

“Hold on…” he responds, drumming his fingers against his thigh as his mind races to make connections.

A moment later, it clicks into place.

“ _The hydra_ ,” he exclaims, turning excitedly to Natasha and Sharon. “It was a mythical creature that Hercules battled as part of his Twelve Labors. Every time he cut off one head, two more would grow in its place, making it near impossible to defeat.”

Natasha is smirking with satisfaction, but Steve can see the gears in Sharon’s head turning.

“My grandad used to tell me stories,” she begins slowly, “about his missions during World War II. They were always about him fighting against HYDRA. It was a secret Nazi science and research division. But they were demolished shortly before the war ended.”

“What if they weren’t?” Tony asks.

“Tony…” Sam trails off.

“No, no, no,” Tony continues, “I know it sounds insane.”

“But it’s too coincidental,” Steve agrees.

“Still,” Sam says, “why would a Nazi organization still exist, and what are they doing here?”

“I dunno,” Sharon states, “but we can do more research.”

“There is some kind of key point to try and tie it all together with,” Tony says. “Give me a few hours.”

//

The next morning, as Sam and Steve munch on cereal, seated at the large breakfast bar in the kitchen, Tony strolls in, laptop in hand. His hair is in a disarray, and his eyes are red, with deep, dark circles underneath; he heads straight for the coffee pot and pours himself a humongous cup.

“You didn’t sleep much,” Steve states, concern bleeding into his tone.

“Not to worry, Steve-O,” Tony says, visibly perking up as he sniffs the steam of his cup. “I found us some interesting facts, that’s enough.”

“Man,” Sam tells Tony, “I know that Rhodes or Pepper aren’t here to order you, but you have to sleep.”

“I will.” Tony sets his cup down on the counter. “Get everyone in here. I have something to tell you kids.”

Twenty minutes later, they are all gathered in the kitchen, seated in various positions, all eyes on Tony.

“After the Second World War,” Tony begins, “the American governmental organizations, including the CIA, had an operation called Operation Paperclip. They were recruiting former Nazi scientists to join the American organizations.”

Steve stares at Tony, mind darting to connect the facts.

“That’s problematic,” Sam comments.

“Correcto, Wilson!” Tony whirls around his laptop to face the screen to the rest of them. “This is Doctor Armin Zola. Swiss scientist, rumored member of HYDRA. Rumored as if it was highly-likely that he was the second-in-command.”

The picture displayed on Tony’s laptop screen is off a short, balding man with round spectacles hiding cruel, piggish eyes.

Steve feels a shiver run down his spine.

“Who was supposed to be the leader?” Natasha asks, head cocked as she listens.

“Some guy named Johann Schmidt, but that’s another story,” Tony answers. “Anyway. Zola was infamous for these rumored experiments that he conducted on rumored Allied soldiers that were taken prisoner, but it was never confirmed, and he, along with some of his other sleazy Nazi pals, were recruited by the CIA and FBI.”

“Perhaps, that’s why HYDRA still exists here,” Sam muses.

“Those scumbags came here and formed HYDRA from within our government,” Steve says angrily.

Only Sharon is thinking logically.

“What use is that information to us right now?” she asks. “We still don’t know enough to go after them. Or find, in the first place.”

“Sharon is right,” Sam states. “Knowing their past is not enough.”

“Well, I’m at a standstill,” Tony replies in sharp frustration, glowering down at his coffee. “I’m a genius, and I can’t think of anything else to search for.”

“You’ve done enough,” Steve tells him comfortingly.

“Well, what can we do?” Sharon demands, throwing her hands up.

Natasha leans forward, jade eyes fiercely determined. “I have to go back to the Winter Soldier. He’s our best bet right now.”

//

“Steve! Steve!”

Natasha’s incessant shaking and crying his name is what jolts him out of his nap.

“Huh?” He stares up blearily at the redhead. “What happened, Nat?”

It takes a moment to register her appearance, hair tangled like she’s been running her hands through it continuously, eyes bright with unidentifiable emotions, lips pressed into a firm line.

Steve immediately focuses upon seeing the urgency in her motions and sits upright, heart beginning to race. “What happened, Nat?” he repeats more forcefully, panic swelling in his chest.

“I think James remembers.”

//

Steve struggles to keep his heart from beating out of his chest in anticipation and insecurity as he thumbs in the passcode to Vault A, JARVIS having already analyzed his voice and face.

He doesn’t want to be dramatic, but it really does feel that the past two years built up to this very moment, and the thought of that causes his hand to tremble and his fingers to skip a number in the code.

Cursing under his breath, he begins again, reciting the combination in his head as he enters each number.

Finally, the security panel lights up bright green as it accepts the password and beeps, the door retracting into the wall smoothly.

Steve relaxes his shoulders and smooths out his expression before he finally steps into the room.

In one corner of the expansive space is an air mattress that Tony had dug out and inflated with a few blankets piled on top. There’s a stack of books besides that, spines unbent, and, on a little elevated panel on the side sits a plate of food sans utensils that Natasha likely brought down earlier, completely untouched. The walls of the vault are constructed from a smooth, unmarked metal, and the vault itself is lit with the standard clinical lighting found in the rest of the basement lab.

And, across the mattress, hidden from the view of the door but still in full sight of the rest of the room, is a hunched figure, still in his black armor, brown hair falling in his face, flesh hand clutching an immobile and dead metal wrist.

As Steve takes a step further into the room, his sneaker squeaks against the floor, and the figure’s head jerks up, hair moving back from the motion, eyes focused on Steve.

Steve returns the cobalt gaze unflinchingly, unsure and unconcerned of where his previous hesitation has vanished.

“Do you remember me?” he asks steadily, tone measured.

There is a pause that begins to stretch for too long, before the figure finally responds.

“You’re Steve,” comes a rasp. “Your mom’s name is Sarah. You used to borrow your dad’s old shoes and stuff newspapers in them to make them fit your feet.”

“Bucky,” Steve breathes with a mixture of relief and joy. “How much do you remember?”

“Enough to know you matter,” Bucky replies in the same raspy voice. “And that you shouldn’t be down here. Where’s Natasha?”

Steve takes a quick breath, pushing blond hair back from his forehead. “She said you recognized her. I needed to see you.”

“Stevie…” Bucky begins, and Steve’s heart flutters at his inflection.

Two years of mourning and pain did nothing to Steve’s pining.

But Bucky continues, and any warmth that had just returned to Steve dissipates. “I’ve done terrible things.”

“I know.”

“No.” Bucky shakes his head in vigorous refusal. “You don’t even know half of it. I nearly killed you.”

“I know enough,” Steve shoots back before continuing with a gentler tone. “Anything you think you did was really the Winter Soldier’s fault, and he was created by HYDRA. It’s HYDRA’s fault, not yours.”

“You know about HYDRA?” Bucky asks in surprise before sighing. “How much?”

“Not too much,” Steve admits. “They’re a secret organization in this country. Hunts mutants. Is responsible for some important deaths. Somehow got a hold of you.”

“Buddy. That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Well, then.” Steve cocks his head, gazing down at Bucky. “Tell me the rest of it.”

“I think you all would want to hear this.”

//

“What the _fuck_ is he doing out of his cell?” are the first words out of Sharon’s mouth when Steve leads Bucky upstairs.

“He’s here to help us, Shar,” Steve says patiently but doesn’t fail to notice Bucky taking a step back so he can stand unassumingly behind Steve, metal arm dangling limply by his side.

“ _He’s_ helped enough,” she hisses back angrily.

Steve’s eyes harden. “That’s not fair, Sharon. You never knew Bucky before; he would never do anything the Soldier did. That was all HYDRA. You may be my friend, and Peggy is still my top priority, but I will take Bucky’s side over anything if it comes to that.”

“Look at who it is. Didn’t think I’d see you again, Bucksters,” Tony says as he strolls into the living room, Starktech tablet in hand.

“Likewise,” Bucky replies hesitantly, his eyes flickering up quickly to meet Tony’s.

“Nat,” Steve calls loudly into the kitchen. “Sam.”

“Coming,” Natasha replies as she emerges into the living room, Sam following closely behind. She takes a seat on the couch, nodding at Bucky. “James.”

“Nat,” he acknowledges softly, not disregarding the tranquilizer gun that she clutches causally in her lap.

“Right,” Tony states loudly, clapping his hands together. “Everyone’s here. We can start.”

They take their respective seats, Tony and Sam on either side of Nat, Sharon on an armchair, Steve on the smaller couch besides Bucky.

“Buck,” Steve points as he introduces his friends to each other. “That’s Sam Wilson and Sharon Carter. We all graduated from SHIELD last week.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Sharon snaps.

Bucky’s eyes silently analyze her before he speaks, “I’m sorry for anything I did to you.”

“It’s too late for that,” she nearly snarls. “Tell us about HYDRA.”

“You remember when I disappeared?” he asks quietly.

No one replies for an incredibly tense moment, and Steve gulps, knowing that it’s been left to him to tell Bucky.

“The thing about that, Buck,” he begins lightly, and, immediately, his best friend’s attention snaps to him. “Everyone thinks you’re dead. There was a police investigation…and a funeral.”

“Steve gave a very nice speech,” Tony adds before hissing when Natasha elbows him in the side.

“That was insensitive,” Sam admonishes, sympathetic eyes focused on Steve and Bucky.

Bucky gazes at Steve with pained eyes, tipping his head back as his mouth becomes fixed in a tight line. “Becca? Mom and Dad too?”

Steve nods in confirmation.

“Oh.” Bucky sniffles before breathing slowly, grief rolling off his shoulders as his face takes on a sober expression. “I was in the woods that day.”

“Why?” Natasha asks. “Out of everything that the police investigated, they could never figure out why you were there.”

There is an awkward pause, and Steve stares at his best friend intently

Will he tell their friends about _the kiss_?

“I don’t remember. I honestly don’t,” Bucky tells them genuinely, and Steve’s hope rushes away. “Anyway, I was in the woods when HYDRA kidnapped me. I think they wanted to kill me; Rumlow mentioned something about my dad and his work.”

“Rumlow?” Sam voices.

“Yeah. Brock Rumlow, the commander from the motel room,” Bucky states.

Well, it’s nice to have a name for that asshole.

“Why didn’t HYDRA kill you?” Sharon asks, eyes narrowed at Bucky.

He swallows dryly. “Because they found out that I was a mutant. My powers chose that moment to manifest themselves. So, they took me instead. Kept me prisoner for a few weeks before they managed to turn me into the Winter Soldier.” His metal arm sways loosely as he shifts on the couch.

“How did they brainwash you?” Tony leans in closer, listening intently.

Bucky hesitates, and Sharon glares at him suspiciously.

“Buck, it’s okay,” Steve says gently, easing him on. “Take your time.”

“The way they made the Winter Soldier,” Bucky begins before pausing. “It’s not a machine; it’s a person.”

“Okay…” Sam comments. “I did not see that coming.”

“No,” Bucky pleads, and, for the first time, Steve sees an emotion besides pain and shame in Bucky’s eyes: desperation. “Her name is Wanda; she’s a mutant, but she’s like Becca. She’s younger than us and innocent. HYDRA’s forcing her to mindwipe all the other mutants; they’ve been holding her twin brother hostage as leverage since they kidnapped her.”

Steve’s heart twinges. “I promise, Buck, no harm will come to Wanda. We can save her and Peggy. We will.”

“What do you mean _mutants_?” Natasha asks.

“HYDRA hasn’t been killing mutants,” Bucky admits. “They’ve been kidnapping and brainwashing them. They’re forming an army, an unstoppable one, to take over this country, form a new world order. They used the Winter Soldier as a pawn to take out anyone in their way.” His voice cracks at the end, and he drops his head, allowing his hair to swing down and cover his guilty eyes. “I killed so many,” he whispers with grief.

Something in Sharon must soften, because she walks to Bucky and kneels besids him, placing a gentle hand on his limp metal one. “It may or may not have been your fault, but you can avenge those deaths by helping us.”

“We obviously have to take down HYDRA,” Steve states soberly. “Rescuing Peggy is out of the question if we put all these lives at risk.”

“There is no way around this,” Natasha agrees.

“If you want to take down HYDRA,” Bucky says with determination, “you’re going to need help. They have so many bases and mutants, but your best bet is their largest one in Death Valley.”

“Death Valley,” Tony says. “Sounds fitting.”

“Do you know anyone prominent in HYDRA?” Sam questions.

“Alexander Pierce,” Bucky names immediately. “He’s the highest that I know of.”

“Pierce?” Steve asks in shock. “The presidential candidate?”

Bucky stiffens. “He’s running for president?”

“Yeah, against your dad…” Steve trails off upon eyeing Bucky’s pained expression.

“We don’t have numbers to take HYDRA down, but we have the Winter Soldier,” Natasha comments.

“That won’t be enough,” Bucky tells her. “You’ll need an army.”

“Luckily, enough,” Tony says. “I may know someone who has one. We’d have to go to Salt Lake City though.”

“That’s just one more stop on this road trip, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this crazy roller coaster of a fic, please comment or leave a kudo. If you didn't, leave a comment with constructive criticism. 
> 
> This fic has an untitled sequel that will be in the works in a few months, so keep an eye out for that!
> 
> Reblog [the original art post](http://ninjasherlock.tumblr.com/post/164351863487/my-art-for-princess-of-the-worlds-big-bang-fanfic/) or [the masterpost](https://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/post/164357322984/its-quiet-uptown-by-princess-of-the-worlds-ao3/) on tumblr.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry???


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